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Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 

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FINE CLAY 

“A fine novel, worthy of a place alongside 
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‘You do not look pleased to see me,” he said.— Bl 


ONLY ANNE 

A NOVEL 

ISABEL C.-^LARKE 


NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’s MAGAZINE 
191d 


•, 1916 , BY Benziger Brothers 



©CI.A428516 


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AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
TO 

LADY MURIEL WATKINS 



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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Chapter i 9 

Chapter ii 20 

Chapter hi 36 

Chapter iv 

Chapter v 68 

Chapter vi 79 

Chapter vii 88 

Chapter viii 105 

Chapter ix 114 

Chapter x 134 

Chapter xi 147 

Chapter xii 171 

Chapter xiii 186 

Chapter xiv 203 

Chapter xv 226 

Chapter xvi 239 

Chapter xvii 250 

Chapter xviii 270 

Chapter xix 291 

Chapter xx 299 

Chapter xxi 318 

7 


8 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Chapter xxii 329 

Chapter xxiii 346 

Chapter xxiv 355 

Chapter xxv 366 

Chapter xxvi 382 

Chapter xxvii 395 

Chapter xxviii 403 

Chapter xxix 410 

Chapter xxx 421 

Chapter xxxi 433 


ONLY ANNE 


CHAPTEE I 

Much has yet to be written upon the practice 
of burning one’s boats and making an entirely 
new start upon the opposite shore; it is not a 
course which is generally recommended, since 
it suggests a certain degree of secrecy con- 
demned by an over-curious world, and also in 
some measure because it is hkely to involve the 
perpetrator of this metaphorical arson in a 
general charge of ingratitude and selfishness. 

Nor is it an easy thing for the principal actor 
in such a drama to take the book of the past, 
with all that it holds of tender and beautiful, 
and shut it down and say: “I will never open 
you again. I will never look at you again. I 
have given you all I had of love and my tears, 
. . . but the present and the future you shall 
never possess, lest you spoil my life and break 
my heart.” 

Anne Travers made a brief meditation upon 
the lines given above on a certain fair summer 
day, when even London could charm, the day, 
in fact, when she finally decided to effect the 
said holocaust. 

Circumstances had been, from first to last, 
against her. She did not bring any morbid 

9 


10 


ONLY ANNE 


bitterness to bear in her charge against fate; 
rather she accused it of an elfin and Puck-like 
attitude, flicking at her house of cards with wan- 
ton finger, and then mockingly contemplating 
its speedy and irremediable destruction. It 
seemed to her as if this very fate had delib- 
erately and of malice prepense set a snare for 
her, concealing it through long weeks with 
alluring flowers, and then cackling maliciously 
when Anne, poor victim, fell headlong into the 
dexterous trap so cunningly devised and art- 
fully prepared. To pursue the simile, she had 
fallen head foremost, and when she abruptly 
came to her senses, bruised and sore, she found 
that she had lost in the process some precious 
possessions, including a few ingeniously flat- 
tering hopes. 

Anne had a sense of humor, which, in de- 
fault of more definite philosophy, is not a bad 
equipment wherewith to meet the ungenerous 
onslaughts of a malicious fate. She took, 
therefore, a certain grim pleasure in making 
her few plans, which should at once remove her 
from her present environment, as well as from 
the supervision of her friends and acquaint- 
ances — thus depriving herself of a good deal 
of well-intentioned, if superfluous, advice. 

The first thing that struck her was the ex- 


ONLY ANNE 


11 


traordinary smallness of England, an inhos- 
pitable smallness which prevented her — al- 
though she was a somewhat obscure person — 
from hiding herself effectively therein. In 
England it is decidedly difficult to remove 
one’s self from one’s own milieu, short of com- 
mitting some grave breach of the social laws, 
when the doors will be found to shut auto- 
matically. She knew that if she were to tell 
her friends and relations that she wished to get 
away from “people” many of them would im- 
mediately say, “But we are not ‘people.’ ” 
And she had but one wish, and that was to 
escape — to hide herself utterly for a year at 
least, or even longer. It was to be a regular 
burning of the craft upon which she had been 
sailing in serene seas for so many glad months. 
No abstract danger threatened her; she was in 
no way guided by caprice. It almost broke 
her heart to make these plans for a sure escap- 
ing. She had been exceedingly happy in that 
comer of the world to which she had been 
relegated by circumstances. No mere desire 
for change prompted her flight, but two very 
concrete things. And that they should have 
been the two people for whom she cared most 
in the world will explain why she should ac- 
cuse fate of a malicious and Puck-like humor. 


12 


ONLY ANNE 


Neither of these two persons had the slight- 
est inkling of the plot she was hatching — so 
to speak — under their very noses. They would 
have been the first to try and dissuade her 
from such a course. They would almost cer- 
tainly have ridiculed her, scoffed at the notion 
of her going, suggesting all kinds of absurd 
and grotesque reasons for it, and generally 
treating her in the light, modern way which 
refuses, so wisely perhaps, to regard the other 
side of the pattern. One of them would have 
gone further and rebuked her soundly and 
brought a charge of callous selfishness against 
her, and Anne was too sore to chance a scold- 
ing of the kind from one who was very dear 
to her. And as it was impossible for her either 
to explain or justify her action, she resolved 
to go away quite quietly and leave no address, 
and pray with great fervency that nobody 
would think it necessary to go and look for her. 

In some respects Anne was in a favorable 
position for carrying out a project of the kind. 
She was of full age, being now twenty-two 
years old; she had no one to whom she was 
compelled to account for her goings out and 
comings in. She was an orphan, and her little 
flat was easily disposed of. Without saying 
a word to any one, she let this modest abode 


ONLY ANNE 


13 


in the middle of the London season, and de- 
parted to Switzerland, which suggested itself 
to her as a place where she could at least pause 
to reflect upon her subsequent plans. 

Late one afternoon she left Viege, whence 
the little mountain railway takes the traveler 
to Zermatt. The train crept up the narrow, 
zigzag track, puffing and wheezing and snort- 
ing, and apparently straining itself horribly 
in the process. Anne was sufficiently tired by 
this time to feel a complete indifference to the 
beautiful scenery through which she was pass- 
ing. A night spent in the narrow and jolting 
prison of a wagon-lit had bruised her body and 
inexpressibly dulled her spirits, so that, far 
from feeling any heroic gladness of soul, she 
was immeasurably saddened by the prospect 
of her approaching loneliness, and of what 
Macaulay has aptly termed her “desolate free- 
dom.” 

Some rather noisy German girls were 
traveling in the same carriage with her; they 
exclaimed in wonderment at everything; at 
the precipitous rocks which yawned on one side 
of the train in sheer and abrupt descent, at the 
white foam of the river swirling down the 
mountains in a violent torrent, and especially 
at the vista of snow-crowned Alps, whose 


14 


ONLY ANNE 


“silver spear points” shone against the deep 
and vivid blue of the sky. They seemed to be 
imbued with all the vigorous and exuberant 
enthusiasm of early youth, although they were 
probably several years older than the quiet- 
looking girl to whose fatigue and weariness 
they were contributing so greatly. 

Their shrieks of surprise, their talking and 
laughter, served still further to depress her. 
She had just taken a letter from her bag and 
was reading it, perhaps for the twentieth time. 
The writer was her old housekeeper, Jael, a 
faithful servant, who had been with Anne’s 
mother and whom she had installed in her flat 
before leaving until the new tenants should 
come to take possession of it. This letter, 
which had reached her in Paris, ran as follows: 

“A gentleman called to see you the day after 
you left. He seemed very much surprised to 
hear that you had gone, and asked me if you 
had been called away suddenly. I said no — 
that you had let the flat more than a week ago, 
and that the people were expected in on Tues- 
day. As he did not seem satisfied, I told him 
that you had not been feeling very well, and 
that your wish was to go away for a long rest, 
and that no letters were to be forwarded. He 
looked as if he did not quite believe me, and 


ONLY ANNE 


15 


then went away, without saying another word 
or even giving his name, so I can not tell you 
who he was. He was tall and thin and rather 
brown with dark hair. About an hour later 
her ladyship called to see you, and she seemed 
very much distressed to hear that you had gone 
away without telling her or saying good-by. 
She asked me if you were ill or if anything had 
happened to upset you. I said I thought you 
had looked rather pale and out of spirits when 
I came up to take charge of the flat. She was 
vexed, too, when I said I did not know your 
address, and had only been told to write to 
you at the Paris post-office. But she did not 
seem quite so displeased as the gentleman.” 

How plainly Anne could see him across the 
foolish tears that now had gathered in her eyes. 
Yes, she could see him standing there irreso- 
lutely upon the threshold, with that hurt ex- 
pression in his blue eyes, questioning Jael in 
his tired, bored voice, and perhaps even guess- 
ing in his mind — so everlastingly impression- 
able, discerning, and sympathetic — the reason 
of her precipitate flight. 

But Anne had put her hand to the plow, 
and it had never occurred to her to go back, 
to retrace those hurried footsteps, except per- 
haps for one mad, wild moment when $ihe had 


16 


ONLY ANNE 


first read Jael’s letter in Paris. It would have 
been, after all, so fatally easy to return to win 
at all costs her heart’s desire, to take the path 
of certain happiness, and secure that which she 
had only succeeded in averting during those 
last weeks by the exercise of the utmost skill 
and vigilance. How near it had been — a 
fruit hers for the plucking — at Lady 
Cammillon’s concert in the pause which pre- 
ceded the entrance of a Royal Personage, 
a slim and fair, insignificant man, wearing the 
broad blue ribbon of the Garter across his 
breast. How near, too, that night at the opera, 
when the fall of the curtain had left the music 
of Lohengrin, with all its emotion and be- 
wildering and poignant passion, echoing in her 
ears. Surely that music would forever seem 
to prison her gladness and her despair. He 
had been ready then to say the words for which 
her very heart was waiting, . . . yet again and 
again she had checked him with a foolish, ill- 
timed jest, ironical perhaps and cynical, such 
as she knew he hated. Even the very morning 
before she left, when she had gone into the 
park before breakfast trying to win some of 
the freshness of the day before the heat and 
dust should mar its bright splendor, she had 
come fact to face with him just as she had 


ONLY ANNE 


17 


paused to feast her eyes upon the brilliant 
blossoms of the rhododendrons, crimson and 
silver and rose colored. It was more by good 
luck than good guidance that it had been 
averted then, for a somewhat important person 
from the Foreign Office had suddenly inter- 
vened and claimed his attention, and Anne had 
hurried away with her toy-terrier, such a fruit- 
ful source of delay, tucked under her arm. 

Jael’s letter had proved a temptation hard to 
conquer. He had come to seek her — who else 
was tall and thin and rather brown? He had 
been surprised and hurt to find her gone thus 
suddenly and without warning. It had made 
her wish to go back, to take her happiness 
in both hands, and forget that absurd 
and quixotic wish to save another person 
pain. 

A cold wind swept down from the moun- 
tains, and a film of cloud, smoke colored, hid 
from view the gigantic Weisshorn, which had 
just evoked so many unnecessary superlatives 
from Anne’s fellow-travelers. Half an hour 
later the train had entered Zermatt station, 
announcing its arrival by the shrill blowing of 
a horn. Anne arose, stiff and numbed and 
feeling desperately cold and miserable, and 
descended to the platform, wondering why she 


18 


ONLY ANNE 


had ever left the warm and enchanting shores 
of Lac Leman. She had reached the first 
stage of her exile, and already she was home- 
sick and tired. The chill wind from those 
Alpine fastnesses seemed to pierce her through 
and through. She began to wonder why she 
had ever chosen Switzerland, with its bright, 
burning heat and crude, sharp sunlight, its 
sudden bitter-cold spells of wind and rain, the 
strange, cruel, and almost terrifying splendor 
of its higher Alps. But it had seemed to her, 
when she was still in London, a convenient 
place for her first halt. Zermatt had suggested 
itself as a spot where the season had hardly 
begun, and where there were likely to be as 
yet but few English people. Some one had 
once told her that the air there was invigorat- 
ing, bracing, and good for the nerves; yet to- 
day its sole effect had been to plunge her into 
a further abyss of gloom. And always the 
tall, thin figure with the closely cut dark hair 
and blue eyes of the man who had stood upon 
her threshold haimted her. Why had she not 
been there to cry welcome? 

Everything heroic had vanished from her 
adventure as she left the train and wandered 
down the platform in search of Clotilde. The 
maid was waiting for the luggage to be dis- 


ONLY ANNE 


19 


gorged, and as Anne idly watched her a voice 
struck suddenly across her dreams. 

^^Anner 

For one moment Anne had the wild hope 
that her ears had deceived her. But this in- 
sensate hope was speedily quenched. Turning 
quickly, she beheld the large and opulent form 
of Mrs. Grayle standing close to her, so close 
that there was no possibility of escape, and her 
face fell a little before the keen and hard scru- 
tiny of those most unwelcome eyes. 


CHAPTER II 


Anne’s eyes rested for a moment quite aghast 
upon the large and commanding form, the 
sandy hair, the prominent greenish eyes, which 
had so often, from her childhood onward, filled 
her with this immediate disposition to ill-con- 
sidered and discourteous flight. 

“My dear child!” cried Mrs. Grayle, “what 
on earth are you doing here? Are you travel- 
ing with friends? You are not — ” she hesi- 
tated, as if unwilling to condemn Anne un- 
heard — “you are not alone?” 

“Clotilde is with me,” replied Anne briefly; 
“she has gone to look after the luggage. I 
believe I ought to go and help her.” 

“Maids do not count!” said Mrs. Grayle. “I 
should never dream of permitting Ethel or 
Vera to travel abroad with only a maid! It is 
most fortunate that we have met. Foreigners 
do not at all understand the freedom which 
is, alas! given to so many English girls — not, 
of course, the very carefully brought up and 
sheltered ones! You are not perhaps aware 
of this ... it would be lamentable if you were 
exposed to insult! For your dear father’s 
sake ...” 


20 


ONLY ANNE 


21 


Anne’s voice entirely refused to utter the 
word of appreciative thanks which she felt was 
demanded of her by the impressive pause that 
followed these words. Mrs. Grayle was, there- 
fore, constrained to pursue her eager mono- 
logue without encouragement. 

“I hope you will regard yourself as quite 
one of us!* she said. 

Alas, how unfitted did Anne feel to be the 
recipient of this social legion d*honneur! Her 
only desire was to escape from the relentless 
searching of those pale and inquisitive eyes. 

“Yes; the dear girls are both with me — 
Ethel and V era. It makes us quite sad to think 
it will be our very last holiday together. You 
heard of Ethel’s engagement? We are ex- 
pecting Captain Westbrook to join us in a few 
days. Such a charming, delightful fellow, and 
most touchingly devoted to darling Ethel!” 

She spoke in a loud, commanding voice that 
attracted the attention of many of the other 
persons who were crowding the platform. 
Anne noticed, however, that it had rather an 
impressive effect upon the porters, who were 
busying themselves eagerly with the extensive 
Grayle luggage, not unmindful, of a possibly 
handsome reward. 

Anne stood feebly in front of her, listening 


22 


ONLY ANNE 


with idle attention. She felt as if she had en- 
countered a most unexpected reverse at the 
very outset of the campaign. She could have 
wept at this gratuitous and unkind interfer- 
ence on the part of fate, through whom, indeed, 
the “best laid schemes of mice and men gang 
aft agley.” The absurd quotation came into 
her head, and she could scarcely refrain from 
repeating it aloud. Indeed, she felt rather 
like a timid little mouse that suddenly finds 
itself confronted with a hungry and masterful 
cat. Of what use, indeed, was it to go and 
hide in Zermatt, if at the very moment of her 
arrival she was to come face to face with the 
dominating figure of Mrs. Grayle, who knew 
all her Elsham and many of her London 
friends, and who would be certain to reveal her 
whereabouts to them at the very earliest op- 
portunity? 

It would be necessary to flee from Zermatt. 
It was only a question of finding another and 
more secure place of exile directly she had had 
time to rest her exceedingly weary limbs. 

She was thankful when Clotilde approached 
her with the composed air of a person whom 
night journeys fail to fatigue. She looked as 
trim and neat as she had done when she started 
from London. 


ONLY ANNE 


23 


“Mademoiselle’s boxes were all despatched. 
The hotel omnibus was waiting.” 

“We will all go together,” said Mrs. Grayle 
majestically; “it will look so much better for 
you to arrive with us. No one will know that 
you are not traveling with our party 1 Sup- 
posing any of your friends are there! You 
will feel far less awkward!” She seemed to 
sweep Anne onward in front of her, like a lamb 
driven to the sacrifice. “Of course, we are all 
going to the same hotel!” 

Alas, they had, indeed, secured rooms at 
the same hotel as Anne, who by this time was 
much too overwhelmed and subdued to be 
capable of devising some quick plot which 
would take her to another. Mrs. Grayle had 
completely quenched all the little spirit that 
had been left in her after that long and sleep- 
less night in the train. 

“Ethel and Vera will be simply charmed 
to have you for a companion. Indeed, it will 
be a godsend to poor little Vera to have you 
the moment Fred Westbrook comes, for then, 
of course, she will be so completely deprived 
of her sister’s society!” 

How little did she imagine that nothing was 
further from Anne’s thoughts and desires than 
to be a godsend to poor little Vera! 


24 


ONLY ANNE 


Two tall girls, dressed exactly alike in neat 
gray tweed traveling costumes, with very short 
skirts, displaying large, brown leather boots, 
now approached them. They were fair and 
sunburned and very healthy looking. Both 
were handsome in a kind of boyish, athletic 
way, although Ethel had a decided tendency 
to her mother’s embonpoint, and one felt that 
in another ten years’ time she would probably 
resemble her all too closely. 

“Isn’t this a surprise?’ said Mrs. Grayle, ex- 
hibiting Anne as if she had been some rare 
prey that had been captured through the skill 
of a practiced and persistent hunter. “Here 
is dear Anne!” 

“Hullo, Anne!” said both sisters in a breath, 
holding out simultaneously a large paw en- 
veloped in a serviceable leather glove. 

Mrs. Grayle continued talking throughout 
the short drive to the hotel. 

“It is, indeed, strange running across you 
like this! You were quite the last person we 
ever expected to see ! And you never said any- 
thing about coming that day we saw you at 
Hurlingham ! I should have thought you had 
far too many occupations and interests in town 
to be able to tear yourself away just now. Y ou 
must tell us all about it presently. Did not 


ONLY ANNE 


25 


Lady Chard try and dissuade you? I am 
sorry to say that the last accounts we had of 
Lord Chard were very bad, indeed. But you 
must know a great deal more than we do. I 
wonder Lady Chard was able to spare you!” 

Already she was unconsciously surrounding 
the girl with the atmosphere from which she 
had tried to escape with such heroic determina- 
tion — that stifling atmosphere of pain and sac- 
rifice. 

Why had she not stayed in town and after- 
ward fulfilled her original intention of going 
down to Somersetshire with Myrtle Chard, 
directly Lord Chard had sufficiently recovered 
to be moved? Atropos with her busy shears 
was a kindly, beneficent figure compared with 
Mrs. Grayle at that moment! 

“What news from Elsham?” was her next 
question. “We have not been down there since 
Easter, and then it was too heart-breaking! 
Poor Mr. Robinson was obliged to leave; he 
said there was no order at all, and that terrible 
new man was simply making havoc with all 
the services ; he upset everything, and it broke 
Mr. Robinson’s heart to see that lovely Vene- 
tian holy- water stoup removed into the vestry. 
But I forgot,” she resumed stiffly, ‘‘you take 
no interest in these things!” 


26 


ONLY ANNE 


Anne could not help smiling. Parsons of 
all descriptions had inhabited Elsham Vicar- 
age within her own recollection, and to nearly 
all of them the Traverses, with the Benedictine 
mission and monastery and church, had been 
as thorns in the flesh for twenty-flve years. 
Nor was their path by any means smooth in 
other respects. If they were fairly submissive 
to Mrs. Grayle and to her changing whims on 
the subject of the treatment of their poorer 
parishioners in sickness and health, they did 
pretty well as regards her support; but at 
present she was waging war against a new 
incumbent with rather '‘broad” views, and 
Anne felt that the very stones of his church 
must surely pity him. 

The omnibus came to a halt, and the four 
members of the party emerged. The three 
girls followed Mrs. Grayle up the steps into 
the hotel, Ethel following her mother closely, 
with Vera next, and Anne, an unwilling fig- 
ure, bringing up the rear. 

“Madame wishes to see her rooms at once? 
The rooms on the first floor, as Madame de- 
sired in her most gracious letter.” Thus the 
manager, who was evidently duly impressed 
by the commanding figure, the loud tones of 
Mrs. Grayle, detecting, too, with unerring in- 


ONLY ANNE 


27 


stinct, that the best and most expensive of 
what he had to offer would probably fail to 
win her august approval. Possibly, too, he 
was guided in his estimate of her by the extent 
of the Grayle luggage, which was wholly un- 
restricted by such sordid considerations as 
overweight or the extortionate demands of 
Swiss railways. It was not difficult after some 
experience to gauge accurately the measure 
and elasticity of an English traveler’s purse. 

Anne’s rooms proved to be, unfortunately, 
close to those allotted to the Grayles, only the 
length of a passage dividing them. 

When they had duly inspected their suite, 
Mrs. Grayle turned to Anne. 

“Now I will come and have a look at yours! 
I feel as you were in my charge!” 

To tell the truth, Anne was beginning to 
feel the same thing, and it was with rapidly 
ebbing courage that she followed Mrs. Grayle 
down the passage. 

“Girls quite unprotected — like yourself — 
are always liable to be put upon. They will 
pay far more attention to you here if they 
think you are with us!” 

The manager had gone on ahead, and he 
now threw open a door, disclosing a pleasant, 
if small, sitting-room, with a bedroom beyond. 


28 


ONLY ANNE 


Whether signs of discomfiture — which he had 
misinterpreted as discontent — showed in 
Anne’s face she could not tell, but he imme- 
diately began to apologize for the smallness of 
the apartment. 

“It will do very well indeed, thank you,” 
said Anne, hastily interrupting him. “It is 
exactly what I require. I do not like large 
rooms.” 

Calling their attention briefly to the unsur- 
passed view of Mont Cervin to be obtained 
from the window, the man withdrew. Mrs. 
Grayle threw open the casement, and a strong 
draught of keen mountain air, heady and in- 
vigorating as champagne, swept into the room. 
The great peak had momentarily disappeared 
behind a cloud, which enfolded it like a gigan- 
tic blanket. 

Anne was by this time chill and numb with 
cold and misery. She had been keeping a crise 
des nerfs at bay for the last twelve hours, but 
she felt that it would be impossible to do this 
much longer. Only the dread that Mrs. Grayle 
would discover that something was the matter 
with her prevented her from breaking down 
completely. It would be terrible to endure the 
lash of her pitiless questioning just now, when 
her whole soul was raw with pain. She felt 




4 


ONLY ANNE 


29 


that only if left alone could she continue to be 
brave. After a victory, does not the conqueror 
feel at least as weary as the vanquished? She 
had left the field of battle only to find enemies 
lurking in ambush all around her. 

“Beautiful!” said Mrs. Grayle, waving a 
fat hand at what would have been the view had 
it not been for those heavy, intervening clouds. 

Anne was too exhausted to answer. 

“Are you going to stay here long? Did the 
doctor order you to come here?” 

Her jarred nerves protested against this ex- 
amination. 

“No, ... I didn’t ask a doctor! And I am 
not going to stay here long. My plans are so 
— uncertain. Perhaps a day or two.” 

“A day or two?” repeated Mrs. Grayle in- 
credulously. “Surely you did not take this 
long journey only for a day or two? You will 
hardly have time in that case to get acclima- 
tized; it will do you more harm than good. 
Many people are quite upset at first in these 
high altitudes!” 

“I am tired,” said Anne desperately; “the 
journey has made me so cold. Perhaps, as you 
say, one is not accustomed — all at once — to 
the altitude.” 

How feeble it sounded — such an uncon- 


30 


ONLY ANNE 


vincing excuse for her want of adequate en- 
thusiasm. Mrs. Grayle’s pale eyes regarded 
her with the look that Anne had dreaded from 
her childhood’s years, when, after her mother’s 
death, Mrs. Grayle had so often driven over 
to give Mr. Travers gratuitous advice upon 
the upbringing of his only child. 

‘‘You have not told me yet why you have 
come here. You say it wasn’t the doctor. 
You must have had some reason, Anne!” 

Anne quoted with a feeble attempt at flip- 
pancy: “No wise fish ever goes anywhere with- 
out a porpoised 

But Mrs. Grayle’s look of profound and 
even disapproving non-comprehension made 
Anne suddenly realize how unlikely it was she 
should ever have explored the charms of 
Wonderland with the adorable Alice. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Anne,” she 
said, with an obvious attempt to be patient; 
“I daresay it is very clever. I wonder you did 
not stay in town to be near Lady Chard. If 
she has any heart — which I very much doubt — 
she must be perfectly wretched about her poor 
unfortunate husband!” 

“I am sure she is wretched,” said Anne, “but 
I can not help her. I wanted a change — a rest 
— I have been doing too much all these weeks. 


ONLY ANNE 


31 


And I am no use when people are in trouble. 
I have no talent whatever for that kind of 
thing!” 

“But Myrtle — your own particular friend — 
to whom you are supposed to be almost ex- 
travagantly devoted!” 

Her pale greenish eyes seemed almost to 
bulge with curiosity. 

Myrtle . . . the very name suited her, Anne 
thought. It suggested so many sad and sweet 
things, and Myrtle herself was both sweet and 
sad. She was ^'belle et triste/^ as the French 
poet, in his wisdom, demanded that his beloved 
should be. Anne could visualize her so dis- 
tinctly: the little delicate face, so wan and 
white when she had last seen it; the gorgeous, 
glowing masses of deep red hair ; the big, iron- 
gray eyes, that were at once so dark and soft. 
A spiritual, fragile face, like some pale and 
haunting woman in an early Tuscan canvas, 
“painted against a background of pale gold,” 
as if nothing else were of sufficient worth to 
enclose anything so precious. 

“Perhaps,” said Anne, with a bitterness that 
was apparent to her own ears, “I should not 
have come away if I had thought I could be of 
any use to Myrtle. She is, however, far too 
much worried about Lord Chard. He can not 


32 


ONLY ANNE 


bear her out of his sight. Even if I had re- 
mained in town, I should hardly ever have seen 
her.” 

“I suppose the truth is you have quarreled 
with her,” said Mrs. Grayle; “and if this is 
the case, I for one am not at all sorry. I have 
often told you — yes, and your Uncle Vincent, 
too, only he is so deplorably weak — that I do 
not consider her at all a suitable friend for any 
young, unmarried girl. Still, I wonder at your 
choosing this particular moment to quarrel 
with her, I must say! But women in these 
days seem to be as fickle in their friendships 
as in their love affairs. I feel thankful that 
both my two dear girls are so stable — so un- 
changing — so firm in their friendships! And 
as for Ethel, she is completely wrapped up in 
Fred; it is really quite ideal to see them to- 
gether !” 

Anne had often seen them together, but it 
had never occurred to her that there was any- 
thing particularly ideal in the sight. He was 
quite two inches shorter than she was, and 
always seemed to be making stupendous 
efforts to keep up with her long and mannish 
strides. They would always be quite dully and 
decorously happy, and at that moment Anne 
felt inclined to envy them and to cry — not for 


ONLY ANNE 


83 


the moon, but for the sweet, commonplace 
things which for no reason at all are so often 
denied to women. 

“I am not fickle,” she said in desperate self- 
defense; “and we have never quarreled — 
Myrtle and I.” 

It would be fatal to allow Mrs. Grayle to 
think there was any coolness between them, 
or her next step would be to try and discover 
the reason of it. 

She added, emboldened by the other’s 
silence : “Myrtle has always been my greatest 
friend, and I have never made many friend- 
ships.” 

“Is she really so unhappy with Lord Chard 
as people say?” 

Mrs. Grayle’s question roused her to indig- 
nation. 

“But I don’t hear what people say, Mrs. 
Grayle. They would not say it to me, in any 
case.” 

Anne felt convinced that her censorious atti- 
tude toward every one who was not by birth 
or marriage a Grayle was the secret of her 
almost universal unpopularity. 

Finding Anne in so tiresomely uncommuni- 
cative a mood, Mrs. Grayle soon afterward de- 
parted, and proceeded to assure her daughters 


34 


ONLY ANNE 


that there was something very mysterious 
about Anne, and she was sure that for some 
reason or other she had come secretly to Zer- 
matt, and had not wished any one to know 
that she was there. And of course the reason 
must be in some way connected with Lady 
Chard, for she was the only person in the 
world who seemed to count in Anne’s eyes. 

“Depend upon it, they have quarreled,” she 
said; “although Anne has positively assured 
me that this is not the case !” 

When Mrs. Grayle had gone the girl sat 
down listlessly by the open window and looked 
out upon the Alpine scene — the clouds, the 
peaks, the everlasting cold and cruel snows. 
“Myrtle!” she said aloud. 

Yes, it was quite true; she had left her in 
the midst of all her anxiety and unhappiness, 
without even telling her where she was going. 
She was aware that Myrtle had relied upon her 
a good deal during those last weeks. Anne 
was almost the only person whom Lord Chard 
would consent to see on his very bad days ; he 
hked her and called her “Mouse,” and she had 
often been the means of procuring a little 
respite from the sickroom for Myrtle, who was 
completely overdone. Yes, Myrtle must think 
her cold and cruel and callous. Anne felt that 


ONLY ANNE 


35 


she deserved to have those harsh epithets 
heaped upon her. Myrtle’s delicate face rose 
up again before her in all its exquisite and 
fragile beauty. She seemed to be haunted by 
the vision of that picturesque and gracile fig- 
ure, the curiously sweet and thrilling voice, the 
wayward charm of her. They had been friends 
since their school days, and now Anne had left 
her just at a time when even Mrs. Grayle had 
said that Myrtle must surely need her. She 
had gone away without a word of explanation. 
Yet, how could she explain? 


CHAPTER III 


Behind the line of eternal whiteness a glow 
of rose and opal now stained the sky. It was 
quite clear now; the clouds had passed over, 
and the grim, tooth-like peak of Mont Cervin 
was sharply etched against a sky of milk and 
fire. It was powdered with a thin film of snow, 
but Anne could trace the places where the 
snow lay as if in deep drifts upon its sides. 
And as she watched, those pale summits all 
around it caught the rose-flush from the sky; 
their whiteness was transformed into a magic 
pink foam, luminous in the evening light. 
Dark and slenderly articulate the pines stood 
in serried ranks upon the steepness of the 
lower slopes. Higher up they ceased; grass 
and trees failed, and gave place to* sullen rock, 
cleft by the white, sharp line of snow. She 
could hear the endless, desolate sound- of the 
river as, swollen by the melting snows of sum- 
mer, it dashed its way fiercely over rock and 
bowlder into the valley below. 

The mountain air struck chill against her 
forehead, that was burning like fire. She put 
up her hand and pushed back the dark and 
36 


ONLY ANNE 


37 


heavy hair from her brow. Mountain air — she 
smiled a little at the confident faith possessed 
by so many in its ultimate healing powers. She 
had come here to be healed, since her mind and 
heart were stricken and wounded. But the 
tormenting ghosts that mocked her had pur- 
sued her even here. All their voices were in the 
wind as it rushed so swiftly and so coldly across 
those grim, bleak heights, and in the river, with 
its monotonous, unwearying rush of swirling 
waters. Of what avail to come when even 
people like Mrs. Grayle declared that Myrtle 
had need of her? 

A chorus of laughter echoed up from the 
veranda below. She could hear the voices of 
the people who were sitting there — shrill and 
guttural and unintelligible voices. Then she 
began to realize how completely the unwel- 
come appearance upon the scene of Mrs. 
Grayle and her two daughters had frustrated 
her plan of remaining in seclusion and solitude, 
hidden from all that little world of hers that 
had any right to protest or advise or condemn. 

She heard the Grayles go past her door, 
recognizing their voices. Mrs. Grayle was 
saying; “Most mysterious, my dear. I feel 
quite anxious about her. She simply wouldn’t 
tell me anything — such a sad want of frank- 


38 ONLY ANNE 

ness. I am afraid there is something terribly 
wrong!” 

Anne smiled in spite of herself. But her 
smile soon faded. If Mrs. Grayle once began 
to suspect that something was wrong, she 
would not be likely to rest content until she 
had arrived at the real reason for Anne’s 
hurried journey to Zermatt. Her poor little 
motive would be remorselessly tom from its 
hiding-place and exposed like a bone that has 
been plucked bare. Surely it would not be 
a difficult task for one so generously endowed 
as was Mrs. Grayle with the detestable apti- 
tude for putting two and two together! 

In the environs of Elsham Mrs. Grayle, 
though disliked by many people, had a certain 
local power, and she was accustomed to dictate 
to, and, in a manner, almost to rule, her lesser 
and more submissive neighbors. Every year 
she conveyed her household and her two 
daughters to London for about three months, 
but there she had never been a success. Neither 
she nor her girls had the charm of manner nor 
the brilliancy of intellect nor those social gifts 
so readily despised by those who do not pos- 
sess them, which win for others who are far 
less well endowed with this world’s goods a 
place in the seats of the mighty. Ethel’s en- 


ONLY ANNE 


39 


gagement was really an excellent thing, for 
Fred Westbrook had both money and pros- 
pects; his worst enemies could only allege 
against him that he was a little dull and some- 
what lacking in the minor graces. 

But Elsham Abbey, the abode of Anne’s 
uncle, Mr. Vincent Travers, counted for a 
good deal in Mrs. Grayle’s eyes, and she liked 
be to be on good terms with its inhabitants. 
Anne was often to be found there for a few 
weeks in the summer, and that was perhaps 
why Mrs. Grayle was unable to suffer the 
motive for her innocent arrival in Zermatt to 
remain uninvestigated. And if she chose to 
pursue those investigations among the little 
set whom Anne had gathered around her in 
London, she would be certain, sooner or later, 
to hear this remark lightly uttered by some 
careless and unthinking person: “Oh, some- 
thing happened, I suppose! We all thought 
she was going to marry Anthony Egerton!” 

It was terrible to think that her poor, miser- 
able little secret, which she could never explain 
to any one in the world, should thus be relent- 
lessly exposed. Perhaps she ought to have 
stayed in London. Perhaps it was cowardly 
to turn her back upon temptation and run 
away. She was unnerved by this meeting with 


40 


ONLY ANNE 


Mrs. Grayle, and she resolved to make her stay 
in Zermatt as short as possible. 

The next morning Anne arose early and 
went out. There was an indescribable fresh- 
ness in the air, heady and exhilarating, like 
new wine. She went across to the little church, 
with its slender, white spire, and found that a 
requiem Mass was being said there. She made 
inquiries and found that there had been an 
accident on the Weisshorn a few days before 
and a guide had been killed. Yesterday his 
body had been recovered. When Mass was 
over, the coffin was taken out of the church 
and lowered into a grave in the presence of a 
great many mourners. On account of the fine 
and warm weather, the climbing season had 
begun earlier than usual, and there had already 
been a great many accidents. 

Afterward she wandered around the little 
churchyard and saw the graves of so many 
people who had been killed upon those moun- 
tains, that claimed every year their human 
toll, exacting the sacrifice with such pitiless re- 
lentlessness. The shadow of their power 
seemed to be impressed upon the faces, so worn 
and tanned, of the guides, many of whom had 
gathered around their comrade’s new grave. 
Their somber, grave eyes held to Anne an 


ONLY ANNE 


41 


almost fatalistic expression, as of men whose 
lives are constantly in peril and who have 
looked death too often in the face to have any 
fear of the King of Terrors. 

She saw, too, what must always be an object 
of interest to English visitors, the three graves, 
enclosed in a single iron railing, with marble 
slabs upon each one and a single cross guard- 
ing them, which mark the last resting-place of 
the companions of Lord Francis Douglas, who 
perished so many years ago in that terrific acci- 
dent on the Matterhorn. 

Opposite, in the little English cemetery, 
the graves told the same stories. Not only 
reckless climbers were laid there — men who 
deliberately faced the perils of precipice and 
glacier and deep snows on high mountain sum- 
mits — but those who had been killed by a sud- 
den avalanche, a fall of stones, a loosened rock, 
while walking on the steep paths. One of the 
memorial slabs bore this pathetic inscription, 
''The Strength of the Hills is His also/^ 

Yet the green valley set in the midst of the 
moimtains looked serene and very peaceful on 
this blue summer’s morning. The smoke 
curled up lazily from the little brown chalets 
that studded the slopes. The sun shone bril- 
liantly; the snows were dazzling and looked 


42 


ONLY ANNE 


splendid against the bright, cloudless blue of 
the sky. The crisp, light, cold wind touched a 
faint pink color into Anne’s pale cheeks. She 
began to feel an unusual energy. She was 
thoroughly rested by now and able to take a 
less unfavorable view of things in general. 
Nevertheless, Mrs. Grayle’s voice fell un- 
pleasantly upon her ear as she entered the 
hotel. 

Waving the Daily Mail at Anne, she ex- 
claimed : 

“Lord Chard is very ill indeed; he has had 
a most serious relapse!” There was a kind of 
acid triumph in her voice. “But I suppose you 
have heard from his wife?” 

“I have not heard from Myrtle,” said Anne 
dully; “I have not had my letters yet.” A 
sudden, sharp pain tore at her heart, and made 
her eyes suddenly dim, so that she could hardly 
distinguish Mrs. Grayle’s large, fat face and 
prominent greenish eyes. “Besides, if he is as 
ill as all that, she will have had no time to 
write to me, she is always such a bad corre- 
spondent! And she must be so — so occupied, 
too, in looking after him.” 

“If she does look after him!” sniffed Mrs. 
Grayle. “I have always heard that she is most 
negligent — though, of course, I do not want to 


ONLY ANNE 


48 


say anything uncharitable. No doubt there 
are faults on both sides! Still, when a really 
brilliant and able man, like Lord Chard, goes 
downhill so steadily — so persistently — after his 
marriage, one is obliged to think things!’’ 

“Have you had breakfast?” asked Anne 
feebly. 

“I have had that ridiculous meal they call a 
cafe-complet/' she answered, with British dis- 
dain. “Have not you?” 

“No; I went out to look around the place,” 
said Anne slowly. “There was a funeral of a 
guide who had been killed on the Weisshorn.” 
She moved away in the direction of the dining- 
room. “I think I will go and have some coffee 
now.” 

She sat down alone at a little table, and 
though Mrs. Grayle left her alone, she was 
soon followed thither by Ethel and Vera. 

“Fred has telegraphed to say he will be here 
to-morrow,” said Ethel, twisting her diamond 
engagement ring with some pride ; “that is two 
days sooner than we expected him. We mean 
to do a lot of climbing. We chose this place 
entirely on Fred’s account — ^he adores climb- 
ing. Of course, it would have been far nicer at 
the Riff el Alp ; it is so much more convenient 
as a starting place. I still hope he will persuade 


44 


ONLY ANNE 


mother to go there, but she is so afraid that it 
might be dull!” 

Anne heartily wished that the whole Grayle 
party would betake themselves to the Riffel 
Alp, but she feared such a prospect would be 
highly improbable. Captain W estbrook was no 
match for Mrs. Grayle, who had utterly over- 
whelmed him from the first, and he submitted 
to her pronouncements with the same air of 
submission as did her own daughters. 

“Dear Fred is quite one of the family al- 
ready,” was Mrs. Grayle’s favorite remark 
when any one congratulated her upon her 
daughter’s engagement. This meant that he 
was perfectly ready to assimilate all the 
conventional Grayle views upon any given 
subject, including their somewhat Philistine 
attitude toward art and music, their immedi- 
ate and rather shocked rejection of all that was 
not strictly conventional and commonplace. 
And, indeed, by this time he was simply smoth- 
ered in Graylism. Perhaps it had not been too 
difficult, Anne thought to herself, for probably 
he had a natural gift for it, since he wished to 
marry Ethel. 

“We are to be married in September,” con- 
tinued Ethel. “I have ordered nearly all my 
trousseau; it is so difficult to get anything done 


ONLY ANNE 


45 


in August, so we thought we had better see to 
it before we came here. We chose a quantity 
of things in Paris. Of course, the wedding 
will be at Elsham; I wonder if you will be at 
the Abbey then ? Mr. Travers is sure to have a 
large party for it; he promised us that he 
would put up as many people as we liked!” 

Anne did not doubt that her uncle had made 
this extremely indiscreet promise out of the 
fullness of his heart. It was so exactly like 
him, and only his immediate belongings knew 
of the suffering engendered by his untimely 
acts of hospitality and generosity. It was 
always quite useless to expostulate with him; 
he was so entirely unable to understand why 
he should not hold out an all-embracing hand 
of friendship and hospitality to the whole world. 

“Oh, I am sure he will,” murmured Anne 
feebly; “but I am afraid I shall not be there 
in September.” 

“Are you going to stay out here?” asked 
Vera bluntly. She was much cleverer than her 
mother and sister, and could be more intention- 
ally malicious. 

“It — it depends,” said Anne. 

“Mother told us you seemed so very unde- 
cided,” said Ethel; “you thought you would 
only be here for a few days.” 


46 


ONLY ANNE 


“Oh, I have no fixed plans,” said Anne hur- 
riedly. “But I do not mean to stay all the time 
in Switzerland.” 

“You don’t look well,” said Vera, and her 
hard scrutiny was fixed upon Anne in rather a 
disagreeable way; “more washed out even than 
when we saw you in town. Do you sleep with 
your windows open? We are such believers in 
fresh air! Those hot, stuffy London rooms 
must be so very trying, especially when they 
are as small as yours. We could hardly 
breathe that day we came to see you in town 
last February!” 

There was a quaint touch of Mrs. Grayle 
about this speech which made Anne smile in 
spite of herself. Fortunately, she had now fin- 
ished her coffee and rolls, and she got up with- 
out making any answer. She knew by experi- 
ence how futile and imbecile it was to protest 
against the Grayles ; the only plan was to grin 
and bear their impertinences, and evade their 
society as much as was possible in a rather 
empty Swiss hotel in June. 


CHAPTER IV 


Mrs. Grayle was among Anne’s earliest recol- 
lections, although long acquaintance had done 
nothing to soften the antagonism she felt 
toward her. In age, Anne came between Ethel 
and Vera, and she could remember how she had 
disliked the days when they used to come to 
tea with her when she was a little girl. Even 
at that early age they were prim and superior, 
and apt to draw unfavorable comparisons be- 
tween their own home — Elsham Park — and 
Elsham Abbey, the abode in those days of 
Anne’s father. 

A child seldom forgets the person who first 
inspires it with aversion. This had been Mrs. 
Grayle’s sinister privilege in regard to Anne. 

“It is a pity you weren’t a boy,” she said to 
her once, in the days when Anne was a small, 
dark-eyed, inscrutable-looking child of nine, 
with her black hair brushed off a low and 
square forehead. 

“Why?” Anne had inquired. 

“Because this property is entailed. Such a 
mistake! And I am afraid your father is very 
unlikely to marry again now!” 

Afraid ? Anne’s own fears would have taken 
47 


48 


ONLY ANNE 


a very opposite trend ; she would have dreaded 
the advent of a stepmother. 

She could remember the scene where this 
conversation took place so well. It was in the 
beloved library at the Abbey, and from the 
windows one had a perfect view of the park, 
green and golden in the sunlight, with its proud 
and ancient oaks and beautiful, stately elms 
and the long, grassy slopes, where the deer 
made soft, brown blots in groups beyond 
the sunk fence; the blue woods that lay 
like dark patches on the hills, garmenting 
them ; the delicate lilac distance that 
melted far off into those indefinite, pale 
mists. 

“For now, of course,” Mrs. Grayle had con- 
tinued, “your uncle will have it all!” 

“Will he come and take it away from us, 
because I am a girl?” asked Anne. 

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Grayle; “that will 
only happen when your father dies!” 

Anne’s brown eyes had filled with sudden 
tears. 

“Oh, but he won’t die,” she had said; “he is 
sure to live a long, long time!” 

She had uttered the words passionately, like 
a prayer. For she was not too young then to 
remember how once — not so many years before 


ONLY ANNE 49 

— the Angel of Death had come to Elsham, 
leaving her and her father alone. 

Once, too, even before that, there had been a 
little brother to share the nursery with her. He 
had been a little younger than herself — per- 
haps about eighteen months, but he had always 
seemed a baby to her. Anne had still a vivid, 
if poignant, recollection of a small, Polar- 
looking person, who raced down the snowy 
paths after her, clad in white furs and woolen 
leggings and a white fur cap, beneath which 
very fair curls strayed. His feet were far 
fleeter than her own. He had died very sud- 
denly, and as long as possible the fact of his 
death had been kept from Anne. She was sent 
away from home, for fear of infection, directly 
he fell ill with scarlet fever; and when she re- 
turned Elsham seemed sadly empty, and there 
was no more sound of scampering feet down 
the long passage where they had played to- 
gether on wet days. In after years other 
people had told her about it. The boy had been 
the idol of his mother’s heart. After his death 
she seemed outwardly very little changed. 
People had said she had felt it less than one 
could have supposed. She had a bright, gay 
disposition, and she was even called heartless. 
But though she smiled still, she grew very thin. 


50 


ONLY ANNE 


Mr. Travers, deep in his books, did not at 
once perceive the change in her. Some neigh- 
bors first pointed it out to him; he took sudden 
fright. One evening she had a fit of coughing, 
and the attack left her exhausted. He lifted 
her on to the sofa. She had never complained 
of illness. The boy had then been dead about 
a year. 

“Darling, are you feeling ill?” he had asked 
anxiously. 

“No; but I am so tired,” she said. She put 
her hand to her heart as if it hurt her. la 

mort a Vdmef^ she said quietly. “I heard Ken- 
neth running up and down the corridor yester- 
day, just as he used to do on wet days.” 

She died not a week later. It was the first 
allusion she had ever made to the grief that had 
so surely killed her. 

Mrs. Grayle’s speech on that occasion had 
sunk deeply into Anne’s heart, and at the first 
opportunity she had sought out her father for 
explanation of the mystery. 

“What is entailed, please, father? And why 
ought I to have been a boy?” 

Mr. Travers had a grave, serene, student 
face, marked with an air of melancholy, rather 
than of sadness. He seemed, especially since 


ONLY ANNE 


51 


the death of his wife, to have lost touch irre- 
vocably with material and concrete things as 
the world holds them. He lived among his 
books. By nature a religionist, with a touch 
of mystical detachment, he was, indeed, a most 
faithful son of the Church; he had built and 
endowed the Benedictine monastery at Els- 
ham, as well as the beautiful church. He spent 
hours in meditation and prayer. Mrs. Grayle 
had been heard to say that had it not been 
for Anne’s existence he would have certainly 
turned monk after his wife’s death. Anne, 
overhearing this remark, had often tried to 
picture him in the somber, black habit of the 
Benedictines. 

He drew her to him when she had asked this 
question and looked at her with kind, grave 
eyes that were very like her own. 

“Who has been talking to you, Nancy?” he 
said. 

“Mrs. Grayle,” she answered. 

“Ah, I see!” And he smiled faintly. “No; 
I don’t think you ought to have been a boy. 
You suit me very well with your quiet ways.” 

“And you won’t marry again?” This more 
pitifully. 

“Ah, she said that, too ?” A glance of amuse- 
ment chased the sadness from his face, much 


52 


ONLY ANNE 


to Anne’s relief, for she felt, somehow, that 
the question had been an indiscreet one. “Even 
Mrs. Grayle can hardly imagine that I should 
dream of marriage!” 

“She said — she was afraid that you would 
not!” 

“These are puzzling problems for you, 
Nancy,” he said. “And I, too, am sorry that 
you can’t have Elsham ultimately. But Vin 
and his two sturdy boys will do their duty by 
it. And I don’t mean to leave you for ages 
yet — if I can help it!” He smiled quizzically 
and kissed her, and she went away perfectly 
satisfied. 

Of course, she did not realize that if any- 
thing happened to her father Elsham would 
not be her home any more; children do not 
readily grasp these things. But not many 
months later Anne knew that his death had 
caused great and vital changes. Toward the 
end of the following winter he caught cold 
walking across the park through deep snow to 
an early Mass, and he died after a rather lin- 
gering illness. A time of confusion and up- 
heaval followed, and Uncle Vin, more sub- 
dued than usual, came down to take possession 
of his new home. He was several years younger 
than his brother and of quite a different type. 


ONLY ANNE 


53 


His two sons were both rather older than 
Anne. She spent her holidays for the most 
part at the Abbey, and, by her father’s wish, 
was educated at a convent school, where she 
first made friends with a girl some years older 
than herself. Myrtle Ellington. 

This programme was carried out until Anne 
was seventeen. Her mother’s sister took her 
out for a season or two in town, and she saw 
a good deal of her two cousins, Vincent and 
Conrad Travers. But when Anne was twenty- 
one circumstances rendered it advisable that 
she should have a home of her own. Her aunt 
died and she stayed for some time at Elsham. 
It was then that Vincent Travers, the elder of 
the cousins, fell in love with her and wished 
to marry her. Setting apart the fact that such 
a marriage would have been forbidden by the 
Church, Anne had not the slightest wish to 
marry Vincent. She felt, however, the im- 
possibility of continuing at Elsham on the old 
terms. The only person who altogether re- 
fused to be convinced of this impossibility was 
her uncle. He never seemed able to realize that 
any situation could ever be' awkward. He 
would have liked, he said, to have had Anne 
for a daughter-in-law, if a dispensation could 
have been got. He affirmed with buoyant op- 


54 


ONLY ANNE 


timism that she had a sort of half right to the 
old place. She would be restored, so to speak, 
to her own. He had limitless arguments in 
favor of the alliance. He couldn’t bear to see 
poor Vincent so “hipped,” nor to hear him 
speaking of volunteering for the West Coast! 
“But little Nancy wouldn’t look at his boy,” he 
informed Mrs. Grayle ingenuously. It may be 
imagined that not the least part of Vincent’s 
trial was to know that his father was confiding 
the whole affair to all his friends and ac- 
quaintances. 

“Dear little Nancy — ^it would have been such 
a solution to a difficult problem!” he would an- 
nounce beamingly. Besides, he was old- 
fashioned enough to disapprove very strongly 
of Anne’s plan of going to London, and living 
there with only her old governess. Anne, how- 
ever, exhibited unusual firmness, and in a few 
months had even dispensed with the presence 
of her elderly and rather deaf companion. She 
took a flat not far from her friend. Lady 
Chard, who had just then returned to town 
from a long sojourn in the Far East. Their 
friendship was thus renewed, and had remained 
— to Mrs. Grayle’s permanent disapproval — 
a very close and intimate one. 

Myrtle Ellington had married Lord Chard 


ONLY ANNE 


55 


when she was nineteen. He had succeeded in 
making her a very unhappy woman, and now 
it was known that he was slowly dying of a 
fatal and torturing malady. She had married 
him without loving him, which had been for her 
the first false step. She was unhappy at home, 
and the glamour of his position in the world, 
the rumors of his fabulous wealth, as well as 
his undoubted passionate love for herself, had 
all succeeded in blinding her to the fact that she 
did not care for him in the least. He held office 
in the government of that time, and his brilliant 
attainments had won for him great esteem. 
Myrtle had beheld him surrounded by a num- 
ber of influential and brilliant men and women, 
who regarded him as their political leader and 
who hung upon his caustic words ; on all sides 
she heard him praised and quoted. The flat- 
tery of his preference for herself proved irre- 
sistible. On her side there were youth and 
extraordinary loveliness — a charm and grace 
to which few were insensible. But the marriage 
had not been a happy one. Lord Chard re- 
tired within a year, though for some time he 
concealed the fact of his illness from his old 
friends. He went abroad with his wife. It 
was freely rumored that he had taken to drugs. 
Myrtle left him once, when they had been 


56 


ONLY ANNE 


married about three years; she took refuge 
with Anne, but it was understood that that 
mysterious power, “pressure from high quar- 
ters,” had been brought to bear upon the situ- 
ation, and since then they had dwelt in out- 
ward amity. 

Myrtle had been accused of many things of 
which she was entirely innocent; it is possible 
that she had been blamed for others of which 
she was more guilty than the more indulgent 
of her friends supposed, but to Anne Travers 
she had been a source of great happiness. 
There had been no shadow upon their friend- 
ship until Anthony Egerton returned to Eng- 
land the previous winter, after a prolonged ex- 
pedition to Central Africa. 

In the old days before her marriage he had 
been deeply in love with Myrtle ; he had gone 
away directly her engagement was announced, 
and for six years had not been seen in England. 
His career had been one of exceptional suc- 
cess, and recently he had received the honor of 
knighthood, “for being the only one to come 
back alive,” as he had told Anne, with some 
contempt. 

He was about thirty-eight, a tall, lean, spare 
man, with a dark face, keen, eagle eyes of 
darkest blue, and hair that had begun to go 


ONLY ANNE 


57 


gray. There was an air of mystery about him. 
His manner was cold and formal, and he made 
but few friends; generally he was accredited 
with a hard, ambitious nature. He was hardly 
ever seen in the drawing-room of any woman. 
But, in reality, he was shy, and often felt for- 
lorn and lonely. He dined sometimes with 
Myrtle and her husband, and wondered why 
she had married him and why the world was a 
stupid place, full of absurd blunders. 

And meeting her so often at her friend’s 
house, he had got to know and, in a sense, to 
like Anne. He used to go and see her and talk 
to her about Myrtle in a detached, unemotional 
way that often made Anne wonder if he had 
really recovered from his old infatuation. 

Myrtle seldom mentioned him and never dis- 
cussed him. Even to Anne she was quite ret- 
icent upon the subject. No one knew if he 
counted for anything in her life. She was 
always in absolute ignorance of his movements, 
for he came and went hke a shadow and never 
settled anywhere. Then Anne had suddenly 
realized, with something like dismay, that his 
frequent presence in her own flat was causing 
comment. The old story of his devotion to 
Myrtle was forgotten; no one gossiped about 
them now — it was upon Anne herself that 


58 


ONLY ANNE 


curious eyes were turned. But she only fully 
realized it when some one suddenly asked her 
point-blank if she were engaged to him. 

She saw then, for the first time, how greatly 
his visits had been misinterpreted, and, in addi- 
tion to this, there was something that puzzled 
her still more in Anthony’s own attitude 
toward her, a subtle change in his manner, his 
more constant appearance in her little draw- 
ing-room. 

Anthony, hopeless of marrying the one 
woman whom he adored and of whose con- 
tinued indifference to himself he appeared to 
be convinced, had now turned to Anne as if to 
try and grasp another more attainable, if 
lesser, happiness than that which he had so long 
desired. She did not quite know when this be- 
wildering knowledge had first come to her. It 
was as if she had gone blindly forward, until, 
all of a sudden, the scales had dropped from 
her eyes. Nor was it easy or even very wise to 
analyze her own feeling for him. It was some- 
thing that she dared not put into words. Does 
one ask of the sun how it fills the whole earth 
with the gladness of its light and warmth? She 
had been happy without realizing why. 

Anne well remembered the day when the 
knowledge of her own dilemma was brought 


ONLY ANNE 


59 


forcibly home to her. Myrtle was staying with 
her, and in the afternoon Mrs. Grayle had 
come unexpectedly to call, bringing her 
daughters. 

Myrtle always gave the Grayles short shrift ; 
indeed, nothing could mitigate her dislike to 
them. “My dear Nancy,” she used to say, 
“one is obliged to know these people if one has 
the misfortune to live near them in the country, 
as you do, and even go to their dull dinners. 
But if you ask me to meet her I am certain to 
be rude to her and those great girls !” 

Anne was rather dismayed, therefore, at 
hearing Mrs. Grayle’s name announced, for, 
since that memorable occasion when Myrtle 
had abruptly left her husband’s roof and 
sought shelter with Anne, inevitable gossip had 
always accused her of a repetition of this rash 
and un wifely act whenever she stayed at her 
friend’s flat. 

“Lady Chard, this is a most unexpected 
pleasure,” Mrs. Grayle had said, her large, 
sleek, blonde form approaching Myrtle with 
the benevolence of the average cobra. The acid 
tone in which she proclaimed her pleasure left 
Anne in much doubt as to its genuineness. 
Disapproval lurked in her pale eye; Anne even 
thought she could detect a kind of sweeping 


60 


ONLY ANNE 


motion of her skirt as if to enfold her two 
daughters, much as a hen will seek to gather 
the chickens under her wings at the approach 
of insidious danger. 

There was decided danger in Myrtle’s shin- 
ing eyes which made Anne fear. 

Mrs. Grayle had her full share of snobbish- 
ness, and liked to be able to criticize a peeress 
from the standpoint of intimate acquaintance. 

Myrtle looked perfectly bewitching in a 
rather puritanical dress of palest gray. Her 
masses of ruddy hair gleamed, and surely no 
myrtle bloom could have surpassed her soft 
and exquisite pallor. 

‘Ts anything ever unexpected?” she asked, 
in that exasperatingly foolish way she some- 
times adopted in the presence of those she dis- 
liked. “If you want to find me, this is gen- 
erally just as good a place as Brook Street!” 

“I meant I thought you must be so fully 
occupied now — sadly occupied. I was so 
grieved to hear of Lord Chard’s illness.” 

“He is at Newmarket,” said Myrtle shortly; 
“so you must have heard a very exaggerated 
account !” 

“I assure you Lady Carter told me he 
looked like a ghost 1” 

“I have never seen a ghost, I am thankful to 


ONLY ANNE 


61 


say,” said Myrtle, in her cold, lazy tones that 
were soft as velvet ; “but I daresay he does look 
rather like one — he is so pale.” 

For some moments the conversation con- 
tinued to be conducted in this cut-and-thrust 
manner, and Mrs. Grayle, who was an indiffer- 
ent match for Myrtle in a war of tongues, soon 
desisted and fell back upon harmless platitudes 
for the remainder of her visit. Anne was 
thankful when she arose to go, collecting her 
two daughters, who had been gazing at Myrtle 
with foolish admiration and wondering why she 
had made a friend of such a quiet, insignificant 
little thing as Anne Travers, whom they them- 
selves had always regarded with some con- 
tempt. 

Anne accompanied them into the hall, 'and 
Mrs. Grayle’s exasperation immediately found 
vent in words. 

“My dear Anne — you are very young and 
you have no mother!” 

All orphans must be particularly well ac- 
quainted with that time-honored formula. 
Anne knew that it heralded a reproof in some 
guise, or, at the very least, an unwelcome word 
in season. 

“You have not even any proper guardians,” 
continued Mrs. Grayle; “it is a disastrous posi- 


62 


ONLY ANNE 


tion for a young girl with some means and set 
down among all the temptations of a London 
life. I simply could not bear to think of Ethel 
and Vera in such a position. I really think 
you ought to know what people are saying 
about Lady Chard — only I suppose you are too 
much fascinated by her to listen! Every one 
is talking about the lamentable state of affairs 
that exists between her and her husband. It 
can do you no good to be on terms of such 
intimate friendship with her! I should not 
permit Ethel and Vera to see much of Lady 
Chard, however much she might desire to have 
them with her. Girls are so quick to pick up 
these queer, shady views of life.” 

But Anne only said: 

“I am glad I do not know what gossip is say- 
ing about Myrtle and Lord Chard. I have no 
doubt that it is quite untrue, and I should ad- 
vise you to contradict it next time you hear 
anything of the kind.” 

“I am afraid in this case gossip is saying no 
more than the truth,” said Mrs. Grayle. 

“Oh, but she’s so lovely, mother,” said Ethel. 

“Lovely? With that hair? And no color in 
her face!” But words failed her at this evi- 
dence of rebellion in her own camp. “Well, 
good-by, my dear Anne. I, for one, am very 


ONLY ANNE 


63 


sorry that you ever left the safe shelter of your 
uncle’s house. But I suppose you found Els- 
ham dull. Girls are never content in these 
days, it seems to me!” And with a final dis- 
approving snort, she vanished into the lift, fol- 
lowed by her two large offspring. 

When Anne went back to the drawing-room 
she found Myrtle had drawn her chair close to 
the fire, for the day was chilly, and was leaning 
forward, with her little, sharply pointed shoes 
resting on the fender. 

“Dear Nancy,” she said, looking up, “how 
they do fill up a room, don’t they? That 
woman ought to have been a policeman.” 

“She has just been telling me that you are 
not a suitable companion for me. Myrtle,” said 
Anne, half-way between tears and laughter, 
for Myrtle in this mood frightened her — she 
was so beautiful, so reckless, and so sad. 

She gave a little laugh and looked at Anne 
with great eyes of almost haunting beauty. 

“No more I am,” she said; “but you are very 
good for me, Nancy, which helps quite enor- 
mously to balance things. You are so restful 
and quiet, and I am at peace when I am with 
you. You don’t ask me a thousand unanswer- 
able things about Pat.” 

They were silent for a few minutes, and it 


64 


ONLY ANNE 


seemed to Anne that Myrtle’s hair had caught 
something of the deep crimson of the flames 
over which her small head was bent. Suddenly 
she looked up : 

“And I really believe that you care for me 
more than any one else.’^ 

“Much more,” said Anne. She did not know 
how soon she would be called upon to put her 
words — so lightly spoken — to the test. 

“You are a good little thing, Anne. I be- 
lieve you are really good. Even Pat likes you, 
and he hardly likes any one now. I believe you 
would have been nice even to him if you 
married him. I am sure that dreadful woman 
must have heard that we have had another row, 
and that I am resting here after the conflict! 
All the papers said I was going to Newmarket. 
I told Jenny Ellington that I was ill — but, of 
course, she won’t believe it.” 

Her voice was hard and reckless now, and 
at that moment the door was opened and An- 
thony Egerton came into the room. He was 
as unexpected as Mrs. Grayle had been, for 
both Anne and Myrtle had believed him to be 
out of town. He seemed a little surprised to 
find Myrtle there. 

“I thought you were at Newmarket,” he 
said. 


ONLY ANNE 


Myrtle’s face was very white and her eyes 
shone strangely. And when she spoke her 
voice was not perfectly steady. 

“No,” she said; “I changed my mind. But 
officially I am there.” 

Anthony’s eyes always reminded Anne of a 
blue flame that sometimes died down and be- 
came ashen gray and cold, and then suddenly 
leaped to life again as with a flash. The flame- 
look was in them now as he glanced lazily at 
Myrtle Chard. 

The three talked over the fire for quite a 
long time. It was one of those misty evenings 
in London when the street sounds become 
muffled and almost mysterious and a sudden 
peace seems to prevail, hushing the traffic. 

“Anne has some new songs; I wish you 
would try them, Anthony,” said Myrtle at last. 
“I haven’t heard any music for ages.” 

“I am not going to try anything, thank 
you,” said Anthony; “but if there is anything 
I know, and if Miss Travers will play for me, 
I will sing.” 

He moved across to the piano. Anne always 
remembered the song he sang that day; it 
taught her many things. She would have 
called herself foolish if she had ever admitted 
that she had been influenced by that song, but 


66 


ONLY ANNE 


it did very largely help her to make her mo- 
mentous decision. 

He sang those well-known words of a poet 
who perished in his youth, after a sordid life, 
wherein sadness, failure, and fame were subtly 
woven. 

“I shall forget her eyes, how cold they were; 

Forget her voice, how soft it was and low. 

With all my singing that she did not hear. 

And all my service that she did not know. 

I shall not hold the merest memory 
Of any days that were 

Within those solitudes where I will fasten me.** 

And when Anne rose from the piano, after 
the song had come to an end, she looked at 
Myrtle, and in her sad eyes she read the truth. 

All those past scenes filled Anne’s mind as 
she sat in her room that evening after dinner 
and looked out upon the cold snows that were 
so bright in the moonlight. She told herself 
that she had been blind not to see and under- 
stand from the first. Myrtle and Anthony saw 
each other but seldom; he was hardly ever in 
England ; both were fiercely proud and honor- 
able. Their love was unconfessed between 
them. And perhaps fate would one day grant 
them a little space in which to be happy — to 
dream anew the dreams of love and youth. 


ONLY ANNE 


67 


Since Lord Chard’s illness had taken this sud- 
den turn for the worse, it was possible that, in 
a few more months. Myrtle might be free to 
grasp the happiness she had once refused, and 
which now had been so long withheld from her. 

Feeling that a crisis was approaching, un- 
able to gauge or estimate her own power to 
meet it, Anne had left London on that smiling, 
sunlit morning toward the end of June, and 
without a word to any one had escaped to 
Zermatt. 

Below, outside the hotel, the band was play- 
ing softly some selections from “Lohengrin”; 
the sound seemed to fall rather pathetically 
upon the still air and then drifted across the 
valley toward the desolate snows. 


CHAPTER V 


As THE days wore on Anne, who was still in- 
capable of forming fresh plans for the future, 
became inexpressibly weary of Zermatt — that 
fair, green valley set in a cup of the great Alps 
and encircled by a snowy range of giant moun- 
tains, which hid the rest of the world from her. 

She had watched Mont Cervin, colossal, 
aloof, and isolated, until she seemed to know 
it in all its moods, now hiding sulkily behind 
woven webs of cloud, now glittering trium- 
j)hantly like a diamond-encrusted thing, serene, 
indifferent, and detached, but always magical 
and alluring. She began to understand in a 
vague way something of its power to attract 
those who desired to scale its impregnable- 
looking peak, in spite of attendant danger and 
frequent warning of disaster; she understood 
why people were found as day succeeded day 
to endeavor to conquer it or perish in the at- 
tempt. There were more disasters than usual 
that year and the story of terrific accidents 
reached Zermatt, but still the mountain called 
and exacted its grim annual toll. 

Anne knew by heart all the little Italian 
68 


ONLY ANNE 


69 


shops in the village street and had bought 
sticks and siin-hats and tortoise-shell combs 
and pretty little valueless turquoise brooches 
at most of them, more for the sake of the occu- 
pation of shopping than because she desired or 
wished to use these things. She had wandered 
in the cool, long grass of the meadows, watch- 
ing the white foam of the Visp as it hurtled 
across the rocks in its swift and eager journey 
to the valley below. She had climbed the steep 
paths toward the Black Lake, meeting the 
Swiss girls, with their beautiful, sun-bleached, 
fair hair, driving the cows to and from their 
pasturage, while the tinkling of the little bells 
made a pleasant accompaniment to the rush- 
ing of the river, the soft, indefinite sounds of 
those summer days. She had been up by train 
to the Gornergrat and looked down upon that 
sheer precipice to the Theodule glacier, a won- 
derful, mysterious world of ice, cold and still 
and everlasting, and colored in hues of jade 
and opal and darkest onyx. Snowy peaks 
were uplifted all around her, dazzlingly white 
against the vivid blue sky — the W eisshorn, the 
Breithom, and that long range with Monte 
Rosa and Castor and Pollux hiding Italy from 
her, while guarding and watching over them 
all was the isolated immensity of Mont Cervin. 


70 


ONLY ANNE 


Latterly, however, she had been feeling 
curiously indolent, as if she were now feeling 
the effects of that bitter and hard conflict 
through which she had so recently passed ; and 
she had almost ceased to make any expedition, 
but sat out in the meadows reading trivial nov- 
els and paying but little attention even to these. 

“I can not imagine how you spend your 
time here,” said Mrs. Grayle, approaching her 
as she sat there, half hidden by a sunshade. 
“You do nothing but sit out and read. It 
seems such a pity not to make the most of 
your time by exploring all the beauties around 
you. We make a point of never letting a day 
pass without going to see something fresh! 
And you are looking very pale — as if this 
place did not agree with you. Nervous people 
are often unable to endure the climate of the 
Higher Alps. You ought to have taken ad- 
vice before coming here. I wish you would 
tell me what is worrying you. An older woman 
with experience can often help a younger one, 
and I am convinced that you require help and 
advice. This trip has done wonders already 
for Ethel and Vera. They were a little fa- 
tigued after such a busy season. Fred tells me 
he was really getting quite anxious about dear 
Ethel when they were in town. But I am 


ONLY ANNE 


71 


thankful to say that both my girls are always 
much better in health when they are leading a 
simple and natural and wholesome country life. 
We are all going up to the Pension Edelweiss 
to tea this afternoon. It is not far and not par- 
ticularly steep and it is a charming walk. 
Even I am going to attempt it, though, as you 
know, I prefer driving when it is possible. 
You had better come with us!” 

It was almost impossible to refuse, and 
Anne, who desired, above all things, to bring 
the conversation to a conclusion, hastily ac- 
cepted the invitation. She felt that she had 
been of late perhaps too assiduous in her 
efforts to avoid Mrs. Grayle. 

They spent the great heat of that afternoon 
in toiling up the narrow, rocky way to the 
Pension Edelweiss. Mrs. Grayle disliked any 
form of walking, and climbing was ill-suited 
to her physique. She constantly halted to ad- 
mire the view, and once or twice inquired 
breathlessly if there was much farther to go. 
No one dared hurry her, and she delayed the 
whole party considerably. Fred Westbrook, 
a handsome, bronzed young soldier, ventured 
no further than to offer her his arm in a timid 
and apologetic fashion, as if loath to display 
his appreciation of her physical disability. At 


72 


ONLY ANNE 


last they came to a very narrow and stony 
track, with a swift stream on one side falling 
precipitately over the hard, gray rocks. Mrs. 
Grayle declared that the proximity of this 
running water made her feel extremely giddy, 
and Ethel, as well as Fred, had to come to her 
assistance. From that point, however. Captain 
Westbrook had to support her whole weight 
until they reached their destination. He was 
quite exhausted, for the day was hot and Mrs. 
Grayle possessed considerable solidity. His 
face was quite crimson with the effort; he 
mopped the perspiration from his brow, mur- 
mured something unintelligible about field- 
days, and was almost as prostrated as Mrs. 
Grayle. Ethel regarded him with affectionate 
solicitude, and anxiously asked Anne if she 
thought that dear Fred had a weak heart. She 
bestowed upon him, during their sojourn at the 
auberge, a number of clumsy attentions in the 
hearty and possessive manner of the Grayles. 

The expedition was, therefore, not a particu- 
larly delightful one, owing to these untoward 
happenings, and Anne felt no further inclina- 
tion to accompany them upon their excursions. 
She managed to escape quite early on the fol- 
lowing day and went up to the Riff el Alp with 
Clotilde, engaging rooms there for two nights. 


ONLY ANNE 


73 


She had already had quite enough of the 
Grayles, for she could hardly leave her room 
without meeting one or other of them, and if 
Captain Westbrook addressed the most com- 
monplace remark to her, Ethel invariably 
looked daggers at her. Unlike him, Anne was 
unable to assimilate more than a very mod- 
erate quantity of Graylism. Her powers of 
endurance were becoming exhausted. Mrs. 
Grayle was still extremely inquisitive, and 
plied her daily with questions about her own 
plans and Lady Chard’s movements. It was 
unfortunate, too, that at that moment Lord 
Chard’s health should so occupy the attention 
of the half-penny press. Mrs. Grayle read the 
bulletins aloud to Ajine, often following her 
into the dining-room when she was having her 
morning coffee after her return from Mass to 
do this. She had to endure the invariable com- 
ments upon Myrtle’s heartlessness and callous 
indifference to her husband’s sufferings. Now 
he was weaker, after a bad night ; now he was 
restless, after a severe attack of pain; then he 
had rallied again in a manner that had aston- 
ished his physicians ; now he was lying critically 
ill. Once it was suggested that in a few weeks 
he might be able to bear the journey to Chard- 
ford, his place in the Mendips. 


74 


ONLY ANNE 


It had never really occurred to Anne that he 
could possibly make even a temporary re- 
covery. She had seen him a few days before 
she left England, and then he had looked like 
a dying man. 

She began to study maps and railway guides 
afresh, determining to effect a more permanent 
and complete escape, and, if possible, to elude 
the vigilance of Mrs. Grayle. She was now ex- 
tremely homesick and desired most fervently 
to have first-hand news of Myrtle. Still, as 
this was impossible, she could at any rate leave 
Zermatt. It was an easy journey back to 
Lausanne, and from thence one could take 
many paths. She was more than ever firmly 
resolved to remain concealed until something 
definite should happen to alter the existing 
state of circumstances. Lord Chard might die, 
although the latest bulletin triumphantly 
proclaimed his temporary recovery. Anthony 
Egerton might depart on one of his lengthy 
and mysterious journeys to Africa, China, or 
Persia. His missions were always as secret as 
they were difficult, and often he was unable to 
disclose his precise destination to his nearest 
relations. Myrtle had once told Anne that he 
had frequently been in great danger. It was 
in the remote and lonely places of the world 


ONLY ANNE 


75 


that he was slowly and surely procuring the 
fame and success and recognition which he 
seemed to desire so little. There was a kind of 
cold, sharp brilliancy about his intellect, which, 
combined with his admirable self-control, his 
absolute detachment, and fine sense of honor, 
made his personality an interesting, if some- 
what ambiguous and mysterious, one. He 
could speak many languages, and it nearly al- 
ways happens that when a man does this he 
also speaks his own in a singularly agreeable 
manner. 

Just before she started for the Riff el Alp 
Anne had read the following announcement 
in the fashionable column of a daily paper. It 
held for her possibly more interest than the 
persistent bulletins of Lord Chard’s condition : 

Sir Anthony Egerton left London last night 
for the Continent, 

Mrs. Grayle, fortunately, knew nothing of 
him, nor of Anne’s acquaintance with him; so 
she had not drawn the girl’s attention to the 
paragraph in question. But Anne’s nerve was 
now so completely broken that she pictured 
him as already on his way to Zermatt, led 
thither by a fresh and malignant caprice of 
fate. 

If he came, would he, too, ask questions, 


76 


ONLY ANNE 


demand explanations, accuse her, perhaps 
harshly, of deserting Myrtle in her hour of 
need? 

Anne devoutly hoped that she might be 
spared the joy and terror of such a meeting. 
It was, she held, less difficult to screw up one’s 
courage and carry out a firm resolve, once and 
forever, than to resist should the same temp- 
tation confront her a second time with all its 
immense potentialities of happiness and of 
love. She was not sure that she would be cap- 
able of fleeing a second time from the soft, lan- 
guid voice and dark blue eyes of Anthony 
Egerton. 

But fate — malignant or beneficent, she could 
scarcely tell which — could hardly play such a 
trick upon her as to bring him to Zermatt! 
She remembered more hopefully that he had 
once said in her hearing that he disliked 
Switzerland, although it always did him so 
much good when he was run down or fatigued 
after a long expedition. 

It was evening at the Biff el Alp, and in the 
falling twilight the mountains looked like pal- 
lid ghosts against a sky from which every trace 
of the vivid reds and golds of sunset had alto- 
gether faded. Below, in the valley, the lights 
of Zermatt showed like pale, fallen stars. 


ONLY ANNE 


77 


Anne could trace the outline of the little street 
by those distant, winding punctuations, while 
the hotels showed in more concentrated and 
glowing blots of gathered lights. Beyond she 
could see a solitary, flickering light that shone 
like an eye watching her from the lonely eyrie 
of the Pension Edelweiss. She walked out 
upon the terrace after dinner. There were not 
many people as yet in the hotel, and she found 
herself alone, contemplating that strange 
world of pine forests leading up to those dis- 
tant, pallid snow-fields that lay so still and re- 
mote in their cold loveliness. There was some- 
thing of sadness in her thoughts as she stood 
there. She felt very keenly her loneliness, her 
self-imposed solitariness. At this moment, 
perhaps, she might have been with Myrtle at 
Chardford. It was quite possible that Lord 
Chard had been well enough to go there, after 
all. And Anthony Eger ton? He was a man 
who seldom made plans and who always 
seemed prepared to start for the end of the 
world at a few minutes’ notice. She thought 
again of Jael’s letter. She felt that she knew 
so well what he had come to say, seeking the 
opportunity she had so repeatedly denied to 
him. 

As she stood there gazing across to where 


78 


ONLY ANNE 


Mont Cervin stood up, a gigantic shape 
against the star-strewn sky, she heard a foot- 
step close to her. And turning, she came face 
to face with Anthony Egerton! 


CHAPTER VI 


‘T AM delighted to find you here, Miss Trav- 
ers,” he said, holding out his hand. 

Even when she felt that strong, cold clasp 
she could scarcely realize his presence. It had 
been with her too often during those lonely 
days at Zermatt, although she had done her 
best to put all thought of him from her mind 
and escape from that remembered magic. 
His touch was perhaps the most dream-like 
thing of all. 

She tried to speak, but nothing suitable sug- 
gested itself to her ; she was trembling a httle ; 
the sudden sight of him had unnerved her. 

“Are you going to stay here long?” he asked 
in his cold, agreeable voice. 

“About two days, I think. I have just 
come up from Zermatt — for a little change. 
One gets tired of Zermatt; do you not think 
so?” 

“I have never tried,” he said. “I was not 
there more than an hour or two.” His eyes 
surveyed her in a manner that made her feel 
as if all the snows upon the Matterhorn had 
suddenly melted and trickled down her spine» 

79 


80 


ONLY ANNE 


Was it for this that she had closed her doors 
so rigorously upon him all those last days in 
town, for this that she had escaped from him 
that morning in the park, for this that she had 
turned a deaf ear even to the pleading beauty 
of the Lohengrin music — that she should thus 
be run ignominiously to earth at the Riffel 
Alp? 

Mrs. Grayle’s appearance at Zermatt had 
upset all her ingeniously contrived plans for 
the attainment of her so desired obscurity, but 
to come thus face to face with him from whom 
she had endeavored to escape, and yet, para- 
doxically, most fervently wished to see, seemed 
an unbelievable thing — a dream-episode, at 
once overwhelming, unrealizable, passing im- 
agination, yet filling her with a strange, mad 
joy. 

The moon had risen and the snows resembled 
an intangible, shell-colored foam. The pine 
forests assumed the blackness of ebony; their 
darkness was obscurely mysterious. In the 
distance the river could be heard rushing deso- 
lately valleywards, gathering to itself all fugi- 
tive sounds and forming one long symphony 
that echoed the pain and joy and the great 
fear of her heart. 

And Anthony stood there, not looking at the 


ONLY ANNE 


81 


snows or the pine forests, but at the slight, 
small figure of the girl, with her delicate, pale 
face, the dark hne of hair that showed blackly 
against the purity of her brows and temples, 
and the strange, wistful dark eyes. 

“You do not look pleased to see me,” he said 
at last, after a considerable silence. 

“Oh, it isn’t that,” Anne hastened to ex- 
plain; “indeed, it is delightful to meet here, 
. . . but I do so hate being taken by surprise, 
even if the surprise is a pleasant one. You 
startled me when you first came up and spoke 
to me. I was not expecting to see you.” She 
talked as fast as possible from sheer nervous- 
ness and from a wish to hide her own em^ 
barrassment. “I came up here to escape froi; 
the Grayles — those Elsham people — she is 
staying in Zermatt, with both her daughters 
and a prospective son-in-law. I do not think 
you have ever met them.” 

“And I do not want to meet them now,” he 
said. “I am convinced that I should want to 
get away from them, too. However, we need 
not discuss that contingency, since they are in 
Zermatt. I have heard of Mrs. Grayle from 
Lady Chard — she called her, I remember, a 
relic of Slater’s.” 

Evidently Anne’s stammered and unconsid- 


82 


ONLY ANNE 


ered words had convinced him that she was not 
altogether annoyed at seeing him. 

“How is Lord Chard?” she asked. “And 
have you seen Myrtle?” 

“He is better, rather; and I saw them both 
just before I left. Do you know that your 
going away like this has hurt Lady Chard very 
much?” 

“Has itr’ Anne pressed her hands ner- 
vously together. 

“She can not imagine what induced you to 
go. Y ou never told her of your intention ; you 
did not even say good-by to her or give her an 
address that would find you!” 

“She told you all this?” said poor Anne 
miserably. 

“She thinks she has offended you. She said 
you had always been so — so dependable before. 
And it seems that you are almost the only per- 
son whom poor Chard doesn’t resent having in 
the house. He saw you when he wouldn’t see 
any one else!” 

Anne was silent. Spoken in that soft, rather 
indolent voice, with its undercurrent of stern- 
ness and reproof, it sounded such a formidable 
indictment. 

“Of course, she has been most awfully lonely 
since you went away. I do not know what 


ONLY ANNE 


83 


reasons you had for coming abroad just now, 
but it seems to me that any reason that was not 
concerned with your own health must have 
been insufficient. I am glad,” and his hard, 
bright scrutiny searched her face, “I am glad 
that that does not seem to have been the case. 
I never saw you looking so well !” 

Anne looked at him with a bewildered pain 
in her dark eyes. It hurt her horribly to have 
these hard words flung at her so remorselessly. 
Her pride was injured, too, to feel that he 
should have so bad an opinion of her. His 
words seemed also to be informed with an 
almost cynical unkindness, since he and he 
alone constituted the sole reason for her sud- 
den flight. But it was impossible for her to 
justify herself in his eyes. If necessary, he 
must rest satisfied that she was inhumanly 
selfish, wantonly capricious. Evidently he had 
not the smallest suspicion as to her real motive, 
and she could not enlighten him and tell him 
that, very far from being self-seeking, she had 
been guided by the one consideration of 
Myrtle’s ultimate happiness. No; it would be 
far better that he should forever misjudge and 
misunderstand her than she should give him the 
slightest clue to the real truth. Far better let 
him think that she had carried caprice — as he 


84 ONLY ANNE 

seemed to suggest — to the confines of sheer 
brutality. 

“I — I wasn’t very well. I thought I wanted 
a change,” she said. 

“But if it wasn’t absolutely necessary?” he 
persisted. “Could you not have waited a few 
weeks longer? I really thought you cared 
about her too much to leave her in this way 
and at such a time!” 

“Oh, but I care for her very much,” said 
Anne. 

“Then I hope you will see the advisability of 
going back to her,” he said, in a much gentler 
tone, but there was a desperate earnestness 
in his voice — that voice which could never quite 
lose its suave and agreeable quality, although 
to-night it held a new note, which made Anne 
understand something she had once been told 
about Anthony — that his subordinates were 
afraid of him and accorded him implicit obedi- 
ence. He could be feared as well as loved. 

“She is looking so terribly done up,” he went 
on. “I am sure she is suffering — and she wants 
some one with her. God knows, I would help 
her if I could, but you must see how impos- 
sible it is — a man is simply no use at all!” 

Anne did not speak ; she wondered how long 
she was to be impaled upon this rack of torture. 


ONLY ANNE 


85 


“I came away partly because I simply could 
not endure the thought of it any longer,” he 
went on. “I haven’t seen her, except just that 
once before I left, for days! I do not know 
why you went away, but I was determined to 
find you, as much for my own sake as for hers. 
She has hardly left Chard’s side, night or day, 
since he had this last attack, and the heat in 
town has been terrible. She has not had her 
necessary rest. Chard is in agonies — he can 
not help being selfish and forgetting how frail 
she is!” 

As much for my own sake as for hers? 
What did he mean? 

“You make a mistake,” said Anne; “I am 
very little use to Myrtle, and she does not want 
me at all. I do not suppose I should have seen 
her more than once or twice if I had remained 
in town. She is not so fond of having me there 
as you seem to think. I often irritate her — 
and as for Pat — no one can see him when he is 
so very bad.” She was aware that her words 
were wild and absurd. No one knew better 
than this man how close and intimate her 
friendship for Myrtle was. But she spoke 
these reckless words in sheer self-defense. She 
did not want him to regard her as so inhumanly 
selfish. Already his very presence had begun 


86 


ONLY ANNE 


to weaken her — to fling webs of the old magic 
about her. “I am tired; I came here to rest. 
Surely you must have seen how tired I was 
those last days in town? And now you want 
me to go back to it all!” 

Anthony seemed to perceive for the first 
time that his harsh words had hurt her. 

“Forgive me, Miss Travers,” he said, quite 
penitently; “I did not realize that you were 
feeling the effects of it, too. I am sure you 
must be worn out. It is always trying to watch 
the suffering — the anxiety — of those for whom 
we care very much.” 

Anne turned and moved a step toward the 
hotel. 

“I must go in,” she said; “it is getting cold. 
Are you going to make a long stay here? 
When I leave here I do not think I shall stop 
more than a day in Zermatt. I am tired of it 
already, and Mrs. Grayle worries me.” 

“I do not know how long I shall stay here,” 
he said. “Must you go in. Miss Travers? I 
hoped we might have a long talk.” 

“Oh, I do not think I am fit for a long talk 
now,” she said uneasily. “I have some things 
to see to. I only arrived in time for dinner. 
But I daresay we shall meet in the morning.” 
She held out her hand. 


ONLY ANNE 


87 


“Good-night,” he said. “I shall look out for 
you in the morning. If we do not meet, then 
perhaps you will give me the pleasure of dining 
with me? I seem to have so many things to 
tell you.” 

“Very well — ^thank you — I will dine with 
you,” said Anne. 

She slipped away, leaving him there on the 
terrace. But long afterward from her bed- 
room window she could see him still standing 
there, evidently immersed in deep thought. 
She could see, too, the glowing end of the cigar 
he was smoking. Her heart was beating ex- 
ultingly. She remembered that he had said: 
“J was determined to find you"" Was it for 
her own sake or for Myrtle’s that he had so 
persistently sought her out? His words had 
left her in doubt. 


CHAPTER VII 


Anne stayed in her room during the greater 
part of the next day. She did not even go 
down to the midday dejeuner, but had that 
meal carried upstairs. She told Clotilde that 
she had a headache; in reality, she was de- 
termined to put off the meeting with Anthony 
as long as possible. But he, having met Clo- 
tilde and ascertained from her that mademoi- 
selle had a slight migraine, had consoled him- 
self for her absence by walking up to the Gor- 
nergrat, where he spent most of the day. 

“What will mademoiselle wear?” asked Clo- 
tilde, when the momentous hour of dressing 
for dinner had arrived. 

“Oh, that old black thing, I suppose,” said 
Anne carelessly. 

“Oh, but surely mademoiselle will wear her 
new crepe de chine,” said the maid, in an 
almost pained voice. 

“Very well; I don’t mind,” said Anne. 

It seemed to her that Clotilde took especial 
care to do her hair beautifully that night. She 
was really looking her very best, and there was 
a subdued radiance about her. Her dark eyes 
88 


ONLY ANNE 


89 


were glowing like jewels. No one, except 
Vincent Travers, had ever told her that she 
was beautiful, yet she wondered with a dull 
little feeling of pain that stabbed across her 
happiness if Anthony would think her beauti- 
ful to-night. She could not imagine how a 
man who had once loved Myrtle could ever 
give any other woman, least of all herself, a 
second thought. 

She examined herself rather critically in 
front of the mirror. The soft, black, clinging 
stuff made her look almost thinner than she 
generally did; at the throat it was cut a little 
open and made her neck look very white. She 
put on a string of pearls which Myrtle had 
once given her. Then she went quietly down- 
stairs. 

‘T hope your head is better,” said Egerton, 
springing up from a wicker chair in the hall. 
He threw down his newspaper and held out his 
hand to Anne. 

“Yes — it is better — I think I was only 
tired,” she answered. 

“Are you ready? — for if so, dinner is,” said 
Anthony. 

They went in. The dining-room was rather 
empty. There was a party of Americans at 
one table and a party of Italians at another. 


90 


ONLY ANNE 


Both groups were talking and laughing with 
a good deal of merriment. They glanced 
at the tall, dark Englishman and the quiet, 
brown-eyed girl who sat opposite to him at one 
of the little tables at the far end of the 
room. Probably they concluded that they 
were husband and wife, perhaps even bride and 
bridegroom. Only that Anne’s rather somber 
apparel, her grave little face, scarcely sug- 
gested a happy bride. 

Anne was glad of the comparative quiet, of 
the sense of restfulness. Even Zermatt seemed a 
fussy, busy little place in contrast to this great, 
empty hotel perched so high upon the Alps. 

They had not, however, been sitting there 
very long when a sudden, shrill peal of laugh- 
ter sounded across the room. Anne’s heart 
stood still. She knew that she could not be 
mistaken, yet she looked up with the forlorn 
hope that she might be, and that her ears might 
just this once have deceived her. But it was 
of no avail. The door was flung open as if to 
admit royalty, and Anne beheld the three large 
forms of Mrs. Grayle and her two daughters, 
followed by Fred Westbrook and another 
man, march into the room with that majestic 
air of possession and superiority which invari- 
ably characterized their demeanor. 


ONLY ANNE 


91 


Fortunately, Anne and Anthony were sit- 
ting quite at the other end of the long and 
narrow room. Mrs. Grayle and her party had 
seats much nearer the door. Still, she felt that 
it would be impossible for her to elude that 
vigilant and roving eye. 

“There are Mrs. Grayle and her two daugh- 
ters,” she whispered to Anthony. 

“I thought that you looked as if you had 
seen a ghost,” he said. “I was wondering what 
was the matter with you.” He coolly surveyed 
the five people, as if to verify Myrtle’s descrip- 
tion of Mrs. Grayle. He smiled at Anne as a 
result of this brief scrutiny. 

“I think I want to know her less than ever, 
now I have seen her,” he said. “Are those the 
daughters, and which of those two men is of 
such tried courage as to wish to marry one of 
them?” 

“The fair one,” said Anne; “and he is en- 
gaged to the girl in blue. She nearly always 
wears blue, because he is supposed to like it!” 

“Poor man,” said Anthony, going on with 
his dinner; “and do you mean to tell me that 
they have been in Zermatt all the time?” 

“Yes; we arrived by the same train,” said 
Anne, with a sickly little smile. “I came here 
to get away from them, and it has not been of 


92 ONLY ANNE 

the slightest use. My only hope is that she will 
not see me.” 

“She will think,” said Anthony lightly, “that 
you came here to meet me! That will be a 
nice story for Elsham when she gets home!” 

“Oh, please do not suggest such a thing!” 
cried Anne miserably. 

“It is very nearly true, though,” said An- 
thony calmly; “because I came here on purpose 
to see youf^ 

Anne looked at him in amazement. 

“But you didn’t know I was here! No one 
knew where I was!” 

Anthony smiled in his slow and languid 
way. 

“Our meeting here was not at all acci- 
dental,” he said; “I found that you had gone 
to Zermatt. What on earth made you think 
of Zermatt? But when I arrived there yester- 
day afternoon I heard you had come up here. 
So I walked up. It is really quite simple, is 
it not?” 

Anne’s face was flushed. “But you will not 
persuade me to go back to Myrtle,” she said, 
with a hint of temper in her voice. 

“Don’t be angry,” he said; “I was rather 
rude to you last night; you must forgive me! 
I feel so nervous with Mrs. Grayle looking at 


ONLY ANNE 93 

us. Y ou must be kind to me or I shall make 
a bolt for the door!” 

Anne laughed in spite of herself. 

“Has she really seen me, do you think?” she 
whispered. 

“Very much so, judging by her look of 
astonishment,” he answered. “But you are not 
eating anything. Do not let her take away 
your appetite. Try some of this.” 

Anne ate a little, obediently. But the 
thought of Mrs. Grayle unnerved her. Had 
she known what was passing in that lady’s 
mind she would have been still further per- 
turbed. 

Mrs. Grayle had been one large smile of 
beneficence until her keen, warrior-like eye 
roved around the room and fell upon that un- 
mistakable little dark head and the small, pale 
face mirrored in a distant glass. 

So here was Anne! Without a word of 
warning, for she had purposely concealed her 
intention of going up to the Riffel Alp from 
the Grayles — lest they should take it into their 
heads to form a “delightful party” and accom- 
pany her. She had in a sense left Zermatt 
surreptitiously, and now Mrs. Grayle could 
enjoy the privilege of seeing her dining alone 
with a strange man at the Riffel Alp! She 


94 


ONLY ANNE 


would inevitably draw her own conclusions, 
the most clear of which would probably be that 
Anne had come up here on purpose to meet 
him, because it promised greater privacy than 
she was able to enjoy in Zermatt. Here, too, 
was a reason for her sudden journey abroad. 
Mrs. Grayle was determined not to put too 
uncharitable an interpretation upon the epi- 
sode, but she felt that it required at least a cer- 
tain amount of explanation. Secrecy was, in 
Mrs. Grayle’s opinion, a certain sign that 
something was radically wrong. If Anne were 
engaged to this man, why did she not openly 
declare it? Anne — the quiet, grave girl, whom 
Ethel and Vera rather pitied, because they 
thought her so dull and ungirlish — Anne was 
dining alone with a man! A man, too, whose 
good looks commanded attention! Anthony 
was, unfortunately, the kind of person who 
compels notice, and Mrs. Grayle bestowed it 
upon him that evening in full measure. She 
wondered who he could possibly be. No won- 
der Anne had refused to give any explanation 
for her sudden appearance in Zermatt! No 
wonder she had made such evasive answers to 
all Mrs. Grayle’s kindly meant inquiries ! 

Mercifully for Anne, Mrs. Grayle did not 
know Mr. Egerton, or she would have been 


ONLY ANNE 


95 


quite certain to come across the room and 
speak to them both. But Anthony was not 
the kind of man with whom people readily 
take liberties or approach carelessly. He had 
an expression that was at once stern and rather 
sarcastic. Nor did he look particularly good 
tempered. Anne felt sure that the incident 
would furnish forth a moral lesson for Ethel 
and Vera upon the reprehensibility of allow- 
ing young girls too much liberty and money. 
Anne would be the W arning to Others. 

And to-morrow, unless she were successful 
in eluding her, Anne knew that she would have 
to submit to a fierce cross-examination and 
perhaps a few words of advice upon the error 
of her ways. 

She felt, rather than saw, that Mrs. Grayle 
was regarding her with suspicion as well as 
disapproval. She would have given worlds 
never to have come to the Riff el Alp, never to 
have met Anthony, never to have foolishly 
promised to dine with him ! 

“I am sorry,” he said, “that we have been 
discovered ; but it won’t really matter, I hope ! 
When I abused you for running away last 
night I was thinking of myself as well as of 
Lady Chard. I — I missed you, you see. Miss 
Travers — you were very elusive latterly, were 
you not?” 


96 


ONLY ANNE 


The blue flame leaped into his eyes. This 
time there would be no escape. There would 
be no music to drown that voice, which held 
for her all music. Whatever he had come to 
say, she would have to hear it. And there was, 
alas! no word that should tell her of love and 
devotion which she did not want to hear from 
his lips. At that moment she could not see 
the future at all clearly; she had no idea 
what she would say to him when the time came ; 
she did not know what courage would be given 
to her. 

“Shall we go now?” he said. “This room is 
getting unbearably stuffy, and that fearful 
woman has gone, I am glad to say. Let us 
go outside, if you are not afraid of the cold. 
You must wrap up well, for it is much colder 
here than it is in Zermatt.” 

Anne went up to her room and put on a 
long, fur-lined coat and covered her hair with 
a white silken scarf. She joined Anthony in 
the hall, and together they went out onto the 
terrace. Against a sky of deepest blue, 
studded with brilliant stars, the Matterhorn 
rose like a giant in substantial shadow, the 
snows upon its summit palely indicated in the 
gloom. It looked almost like a film, a web. 
And all around them the mountains seemed to 


ONLY ANNE 


97 


lie asleep under their white, unsullied blankets 
of everlasting snow. And it seemed to Anne 
then that she and Anthony were quite alone in 
this strangely quiet world of snow and ice, 
against which the pine woods looked like ser- 
ried ranks of shadowy sentinels watching them. 

He led her down a little path that dipped 
into the woods at a short distance from the 
hotel. 

“So you never guessed what I meant by 
coming?” he said at last. “It did not occur 
to you that I had a selfish reason for wishing 
you to return to England ? You never thought 
that it was because I — I loved you — Anne?” 

All the music of the summer night, the 
hushed song of the pine trees, the joyous 
symphony of the river rushing valleyward — 
seemed to inform those words. She could only 
repeat them dully after him, as if unable to 
comprehend. “You loved — me?” 

She had dimly guessed it, indeed, for many 
weeks, and others had suspected it, too. Yet 
she knew perfectly well that Anthony was 
only offering her that kind of secondary love 
which a man will sometimes bestow when the 
lonehness of life presses heavily and his heart’s 
desire is irrevocably withheld from him, driv- 
ing him to seek the lesser happiness that lies 


98 


ONLY ANNE 


close to his hand. She could hardly doubt that 
he cared for her a little — enough, indeed, to 
wish to marry her, since he had voluntarily 
sought her in this way ; but she knew, too, that 
all the best love of his life had been given to 
Myrtle Chard long before they had ever seen 
each other. 

Filled with the consuming and penetrating 
bitterness of this thought, Anne cried out 
sharply: “You do not love me!” 

Anthony looked at her in surprise. “Why, 
what do you mean V he said. “Do you suppose 
I should have come out here to see you if I 
hadn’t loved you?” 

His flaming eyes searched hers. She could 
not meet his look, but turned away toward 
those far-off, desolate snows that seemed to re- 
semble the remote and chilly solitudes of her 
own future. 

He put out his hand and touched hers tim- 
idly. “Anne,” he said, “I came here on pur- 
pose to ask you to be my wife. I have hardly 
dared think so — but sometimes I believed that 
you were not altogether indifferent; you did 
not seem so always. We have been friends, 
have we not? — you and I!” 

There was a desperate, almost boyish plead- 
ing in his voice which touched Anne inex- 
pressibly. 


ONLY ANNE 


99 


His hand still rested upon hers, and the 
touch, which had at first seemed as of ice, now 
scorched her. But she kept her face averted, 
lest even in that wan light his quick appre- 
hensiveness should read anything of the truth 
in her eyes. 

“Perhaps,” he went on anxiously, “you are 
thinking of what I said to you last night? I 
was afraid afterward that my words — my 
stupid and thoughtless words — had hurt you!” 

“I can not marry you,” she said at last; “it 
was quite useless for you to come here and see 
me! I — I am not worth the trouble. You 
know how selfish I am — how capricious — ” 
with a half-smothered sob; “you have told me 
so yourself, have you not? I could not expect 
you to care for me long — even if you care at 
all, which I can hardly believe — after all you 
said to me yesterday!” 

“Dear,” he said, “I didn’t really mean it. I 
was hurt at your going away like that. I never 
really believed that you were capricious or 
selfish — you must forgive me!” 

“Something was worrying me very much in 
London — that is why I came away — to be 
alone. I can always think things out better 
if I am quite alone! I do not love you,” the 
words fell from her lips unconvincingly, and 


100 


ONLY ANNE 


woods and mountains and river seemed to echo 
that miserable, futile little lie — “I do not!” 

“That is not true,” said Anthony heavily. 

Again she dreaded lest he had read her 
thoughts — interpreted those hasty, stammered 
words of denial, and discerned through it all 
her real motive and the nature of the “thing 
that was worrying her.” But if he did — and 
she always believed that at that moment he 
was not very far from divining the truth — he 
said nothing, but continued to look at her in 
almost angry silence. 

“It is true that I can not marry you,” she 
said. 

“But not true that you do not love me!” he 
said quietly, and he took her face between his 
two hands and turned it toward him so that he 
could read every line of it, and she could hide 
it no more and longed in her despair to blurt 
out the whole truth to him. “Don’t you think 
I have seen it in your eyes — your beautiful 
eyes that said so much when you yourself were 
so silent and so cold? It is not hard for love 
to recognize love ! For I do love you — in spite 
of all you say — and I believe that you care a 
little, too!” 

She felt that soon he would force her to 
speak. And then between them, floating like 


ONLY ANNE 


101 


some vague and intangible vision, she seemed 
to see the face of Myrtle Chard — Myrtle with 
her sweet and sad beauty. And to Anne’s dis- 
torted fancy she appeared to be regarding 
them reproachfully. 

She freed herself from Anthony’s clasp. 
She did not understand this new Anthony, who 
was making her almost forget that he had ever 
cared for Myrtle, so well was he pleading his 
cause now. He was persuading her against 
her will. Her strength was ebbing; not even 
for Myrtle’s sake could she bring herself to re- 
peat her lie. She could only pray that what 
she had already said might suffice to convince 
him. 

She felt physically faint and spent with emo- 
tion. Strange music seemed to be sounding in 
her ears. First it was Anthony’s voice, sing- 
ing as he had done that evening in London; 
the words of the song came back to her 
memory : 

“I shall forget her eyes, how cold they were. 

Forget her voice, how soft it was and low. 

With all my singing that she would not hear. 

And all my service that she did not know.” 

Again it was “Lohengrin” — that matchless 
music of farewell — which she seemed to hear 


102 


ONLY ANNE 


echoing relentlessly across the great stillness 
of the night. A little cold wind sprang up and 
touched her face with breath of ice. It revived 
her; the feeling of faintness passed, although 
she shivered and trembled from head to foot. 

Anthony’s next words brought her back to 
earth. 

“I do not understand you,” he said at last; 
“you are very mysterious — you are not easy to 
read. I was a conceited fool ever to believe 
that you could care for me. Yet even now 
when you looked at me I felt that there was 
something in your eyes which said you were 
not so indifferent as you would make me be- 
lieve. There is some barrier between us — and 
you will not tell me what it is. Of course, you 
have every right to keep your own counsel. 
You have baffled me utterly. I do not under- 
stand you, and I will not trouble you any 
more! Oh, Anne,” and his voice had an odd 
break in it and his face was suddenly disturbed 
by a strange, passionate, vehement look, “if 
you ever change, if that thing which is keeping 
us apart — the thing that is only known to your 
enigmatic little self — should ever be removed, 
perhaps you will tell me? For I believe that 
you might have learned in time — to care a 
little, too.” 


ONLY ANNE 


103 


The broken tenderness of his voice, some- 
thing of surpassing sweetness in those spoken 
words, the eager look in his dark eyes — were 
more than she was able to bear. She knew 
that he was wholly and abidingly dear to her; 
she felt at that moment as if all her motives for 
refusing to be his wife were foolish and quix- 
otic; she was persuaded, too, that he really 
loved her — there was nothing to divide them. 
Even Myrtle was only a beautiful and ex- 
quisite phantom, who had no part in this drama 
of youth and love, played under the stars, 
within sight of the snows. 

And then she heard her own voice saying 
coldly and deliberately, and speaking as if 
from a long distance away, the words that were 
wilfully to separate them forever: 

‘T shall go back to Zermatt in the morning; 
we need not meet again. But please believe 
that I am very sorry for all that has happened, 
for anything that I may have said or done to 
give you a false impression.” Already she felt 
the distance increasing between them, arbi- 
trarily separating them — a distance across 
which no sight or sound of him should ever 
travel to her. ‘T am to blame. I am so very 
sorry.” 

A sudden sound of footsteps fell upon their 


104 


ONLY ANNE 


ears, followed by a little giggle of laughter. 
Five figures — three women and two men — 
passed along the path just below them. The 
buoyant Grayle voices struck gaily across the 
silence. “Oh, but I am quite positive it was 
Anne!” she heard Vera Grayle saying. 

“Who was that?” asked Anthony sharply. 

“The Grayles,” she answered. 

“They must have seen us,” she said. 

“Probably,” said Anne coldly; “but I do 
not care what Mrs. Grayle says. I shall try 
and avoid seeing her again.” 

“You are not going?” he said. He moved 
as if he would have detained her. 

“I am tired and cold,” she said dully; 
“please let me go.” 

“We will walk back together,” he said. 

They went back to the hotel in silence. The 
hall was empty. He paused for a moment. 

“You have given me — not the slightest 
hope,” he said. “Is this what you meant to do? 
You are quite, quite sure that you will never 
change?” 

Her eyes met his. She spoke bravely. 

“I am sorry — but I am quite, quite sure — 
that I shall never change.” For the first time, 
her words had the ring of truth, but he did not 
read their real meaning into them. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Anne returned to Zermatt early on the fol- 
lowing day to collect the few possessions she 
had left there. She did not encounter any of 
the Grayles until the evening, when she had, 
indeed, begun to hope that they intended to 
prolong their sojourn at the Riff el Alp. She 
remained in her room most of the day, feeling 
disinclined to go out. She was to leave for 
Lausanne on the following morning and had 
almost decided to return to England, since her 
sojourn abroad had proved such a failure. 

She was sitting at the window, listening to 
the river as it rushed past the hotel, with a 
sound as of many waters. It seemed to her 
to sing of those ice-bound months when the 
waters refused to flow joyously, and of how, 
when at last the snows began to melt and come 
down from the grim fastnesses to nourish it, 
and the sun shone gloriously to set it free with 
the touch of his wonderful love, it sought with 
renewed rapture those pleasant and green, 
vine-clad ways — the fertile peace of the Rhone 
Valley. 

She wondered if there would ever come a 


105 


106 


ONLY ANNE 


time to her when she also would be free, to seek 
a pleasant valley and find it green and fair 
with corn and ripening vine. 

Across these dreams, that were not yet too 
sad with sense of irremediable loss, there came 
a loud knock at the door of her room. 

“Are you there, Anne?” said Mrs. Grayle, 
and, opening the door, she entered in her usual 
dominating way. 

“Yes, I am here,” said Anne feebly; “we 
are busy packing.” 

“You do not look very busy,” said Mrs. 
Grayle, with a withering glance at Clotilde, 
who discreetly withdrew into the bedroom 
and closed the door. 

“I should like to say a few words to you 
alone,” said Mrs. Grayle. 

“Yes?” said Anne. 

It was not so easy to speak, after all, for 
Anne’s face was perfectly unconscious. She 
looked fatigued and rather paler than usual, 
but she smiled faintly as she looked at Mrs. 
Grayle. She wondered vaguely if it would be 
possible to silence her evidently strongly 
aroused suspicions. 

“I wish to know who that very good-looking 
man was with whom you were dining last 
night!” said Mrs. Grayle, in an acid tone. 


ONLY ANNE 


107 


“You were out in the woods with him later, 
were you not? Vera said she was positive she 
saw you!” 

“I know — I heard her,” said Anne, flushing. 

Mrs. Grayle was not easily taken aback, but 
this speech did, somehow, contrive to check the 
flow of her eloquence. 

“I was not sure myself,” continued Mrs. 
Grayle, after a moment, in which she won- 
dered if Anne really had intended to be inso- 
lent or whether it was only her unfortunate 
manner. “I must tell you that I do not per- 
mit Ethel and Vera to go roaming about after 
dark with any one. It is one of the penalties 
of class that we must set an example, and not 
copy the methods of Mary Anne!” 

The attack was at once more brutal and 
more violent than Anne had expected. She 
was glad that it relieved her of any obligation 
to reply. She did not wish Mrs. Grayle to 
know who Anthony was. She was even thank- 
ful that she had obviously been unable to dis- 
cover his identity by any of the usual methods. 
He had not written his name in the hotel book, 
and the manager, who had been severely ques- 
tioned on the subject, had professed his sorrow 
and desolation at his unfortunate inability 
either to remember or pronounce the “English 


108 


ONLY ANNE 


milord’s” name. All titles were apparently 
alike to him, and he was satisfied that his visi- 
tor possessed this claim to respectability. 

“It is at last explained to me why you came 
here,” continued Mrs. Grayle, in the tone 
which she had always adopted with such suc- 
cess toward the “Friendly Girls” with whom 
she had come in contact, especially the more 
refractory ones. 

“You make a mistake,” said Anne quietly; 
“the meeting, as far as I am concerned, was 
perfectly accidental.” 

“I can put two and two together as well as 
most people,” said Mrs. Grayle, with a brisk, 
unpleasant laugh. 

Anne took up some trifles of lace and be- 
gan to wrap them up in soft paper. 

“One would have thought that meeting acci- 
dentally like that you would have been only too 
glad to show him that you were not entirely 
alone — that you were with friends. Most 
really nice men are so terribly conventional 
about any girl they respect!” 

“He is perfectly aware that I always live 
alone,” said Anne. “If you will kindly ex- 
cuse me, I will call Clotilde — she has so much 
to do, as we are leaving by the early train.” 

Mrs. Grayle withdrew sullenly. She was 


ONLY ANNE 


109 


quite convinced now that Anne was the pos- 
sessor of a guilty secret and that she was being 
deliberately and intentionally deceitful and un- 
truthful about it. She regretted that the girl 
was growing up so unlike Ethel and Vera, who 
had not a secret in the world from their mother. 
She felt thankful that Anne was going away, 
lest the girls should become contaminated by 
her atrocious example. This was the result of 
her intimate friendship with such a person as 
Myrtle Chard! She allowed the rather harm- 
less little episode to assume the gravest propor- 
tions in her mind. This man, masquerading 
as an “English milord,’’ was doubtless a most 
unscrupulous adventurer, who had followed 
Anne to Switzerland for the purpose of black- 
mailing her. Otherwise, why did he not write 
his name in the hotel book? Her flights of 
fancy were perfectly untrammeled. She did 
not stop to reflect that Anne’s peaceful and 
rather sad face bore no indication of guilt or 
fear. And owing to the slightness of the evi- 
dence and to her own ignorance of the man’s 
identity, it would be useless at present to write 
and acquaint Mr. Vincent Travers with the 
unconventional behavior of his niece. 

The day passed very slowly and wearily for 
Anne. Yesterday’s hours had been winged 


110 


ONLY ANNE 


— filled full of glad moments that slipped past 
in joyous haste; to-day dragged heavily as if 
weighted by its bitter burden of useless regret. 

At night a letter from Myrtle reached her. 
She had sent it through Jael, having taken it 
herself to the flat, asking that it might be for- 
warded at once. 

“I don’t care where you are,” Myrtle wrote ; 
“but this is to tell you that I have had a most 
terrible time with Pat, and I have wanted you 
dreadfully. What on earth you wanted to run 
away like that for I can not imagine. I sup- 
pose you were sick to death of the whole busi- 
ness, and it must be simply lovely to be free 
to go like that! Pat took a great dislike to 
both his nurses and declared they were in 
league to poison him. I could not get any one 
to please him, and I was up night and day with 
him myself, and now I am perfectly worn out. 
Why did you run away like that? Who is he? 
I know this sounds trite, but you might have 
let me into the secret. Anthony has gone, too 
— quite as mysteriously. If you had not always 
been so snubby to him I should have suspected 
an elopement! Pat is better to-day, and even 
talks of leaving town. But I believe we are 
fixed here forever, and it is a perfect inferno 
in this heat! I hope you are enjoying your- 


ONLY ANNE 111 

self somewhere in the cool, away from this din 
and noise.” 

Anne almost wept with mortification when 
she read this letter and realized how very near 
Myrtle had been to guessing the truth. Now 
if she ever heard of that untoward meeting, it 
would inevitably crystallize her suspicions and 
make matters a thousand times worse. She 
would believe that Anne had meant to deceive 
herl She did not want Myrtle even to sus- 
pect the truth. For the present she felt that 
it would be far better that she and Myrtle 
should not meet. She was sorry for her, but 
she was far more passionately sorry for her- 
self. In the cold morning hours she had real- 
ized fully what she had done. She had sent 
Anthony away with bitter finality, and with 
him had gone the very light of her eyes. To 
see Myrtle now would be only a gratuitous 
opening of the wound. She had longed to call 
him back, to tell him the truth, to assure him 
of her enduring love. 

Many times she had re-enacted that scene 
in the pine woods, as if trying to learn it by 
heart, to remember his words, the look in his 
eyes. The wind whistled through the black, 
melancholy pines, drifting desolately across the 
snows ; the river sang of her happy valley, her 


112 


ONLY ANNE 


familiar, sheltered cornfields and vineyards. 
The mountains and the stars seemed to watch 
them — remote and cold and indifferent. The 
whole glamour of the scene was upon her once 
more, possessing her thoughts. Anthony’s 
voice, sounding like music in her ears, came 
back to her as if it were trying to penetrate 
to her across the wide gulf that must now for- 
ever divide them. Then she tried to release 
herself from these torturing, exquisite mem- 
ories. But the tyranny of life gripped her 
close. She loved him — she would always love 
him — but for Myrtle’s sake she had sent him 
away. 

She said good-by to the Grayles after din- 
ner, for they intercepted her as she was pass- 
ing through the hall. Mrs. Grayle, still look- 
ing censorious and disapproving, said in an 
acid tone: “No doubt we shall meet later at 
Elsham — if you really intend to return to 
England!” Something in her war-like eyes 
made Anne tremble for the safety of her poor 
little secret. Ethel’s parting words were not 
without a hint of malice: “You must be sure 
and come to my wedding, if you are back in 
England. I wonder what made you change 
your plans so suddenly? Perhaps we shall 
hear of your getting married next, Anne!” 


ONLY ANNE 


113 


There was a cold sarcasm about the words. 
Yet it was impossible that they should have 
discovered anything of the real nature of the 
interview between herself and the mysterious 
English milord with whom she had dined at the 
Riffel Alp. 


CHAPTER IX 


The train sped into Bath at the close of an 
insufferably hot July day. The hills around 
the city retained their fresh, green aspect, as 
if something of the dampness of the sea had 
been blown across them by the soft, westerly 
winds. The Avon showed like a path of glow- 
ing, vivid gold, outlined faintly by the twin 
rows of gray willows. The tower of the Abbey 
stood protectively above the gray old city, 
with its fine, delicate yet strong lines. The 
squares, streets, and crescents rose tier above 
tier, almost to the summit of the surrounding 
hills, the graceful disposition of this white 
group of buildings being rendered the more 
apparent by the dark blots of intervening trees, 
and the sudden green space of the high com- 
mon that was lifted above the wooded park. 

Anne stepped down rather wearily from the 
train. She had come direct from Boulogne 
that day and was rather tired, though she had 
spent a few weeks there before returning to 
England, thinking that the sea breezes might 
revive her. 

It had been impossible for her to stay a single 


ONLY ANNE 


115 


night in town. Her flat was still let and Jael 
was no longer there, and she feared greatly any 
chance meeting with friends. She did not know 
if Myrtle was still in Brook Street. There was 
no one to ask. She had chosen Bath as her 
first halt, because she knew of a cottage some 
twelve miles or so from the city which had 
once taken her fancy. She had seen it when 
motoring in Somersetshire with Myrtle; it had 
struck her as being a pretty little place, and she 
had liked, too, the quiet, picturesque village 
near at hand. There was a little Catholic 
church, too — a not too common thing in a place 
so remotely rural. She resolved to wait a day 
or two in Bath and then explore. 

Not a week later Anne was ensconced in the 
cottage of her dreams at Middlecombe. Every- 
thing had for once gone with perfect smooth- 
ness. The place was to be let, as the owner, 
a Miss Shepton, had had to go to a nursing- 
home in Bath to undergo an operation. She 
was an artist, and the place was as charming 
within as it was without, full of delicate, old- 
fashioned furniture and china. The garden 
was even now, in spite of the drought, a blaze 
of bright color, and the rambler roses were in 
full bloom. Southward the Mendips stretched 
their faint, green outlines, full of a quiet grace, 


116 


ONLY ANNE 


but lacking something of the austere charm 
of their sister chain, the Cotswold Hills. 

Middlecombe was quite five miles from the 
nearest town of any importance, and it was also 
four from a station, which procured it a certain 
immunity from popularity. It was very rural 
and quiet, except for an occasional motor 
sweeping through amid clouds of white dust. 
At the best there were very few people living 
in the neighborhood, and when Anne arrived 
they were nearly all away. Middlecombe Park 
was the property of Sir Joshua Brettingham, 
and Anne learned that he was extremely 
wealthy, though the source of his riches was 
somewhat obscure, as he “didn’t rightly be- 
long” to Middlecombe. Report also endowed 
him with a wife, two sons and a daughter. 

The two churches — one Cathohc, the other 
Protestant — stood at opposite ends of the 
village. Just beyond the last houses and up 
a steep, short hill there was a convent of French 
nuns, who had not long been exiled from their 
native land. Their black-veiled figures were 
always to be seen at the early Mass in the little 
church, which was not very far from their own 
high iron gates. The mission was slenderly en- 
dowed, and was small and rather poor. The 
priest was an old man, bent and gray-haired. 


ONLY ANNE 


117 


Anne soon made his acquaintance and that of 
the nuns. She did not know any one else in 
the place, and did not at all desire to do so. It 
was a relief to learn that the Brettinghams had 
already left for Scotland ; she was a little afraid 
that they might prove to be just the sort of 
people who would seek her out and desire to 
be kind to her. 

Middlecombe was certainly a peaceful little 
spot, quite untouched by the kind of civiliza- 
tion which necessitates doing everything at 
breathless speed and which encourages a per- 
petual habit of restless rushing. Anne’s new 
quarters were extremely pretty and comfort- 
able, and many seekers after the simple life 
in week-end cottages might have found it in 
their hearts to envy her. 

Something, too, of the charm of the real 
owner’s personality seemed to pervade the cot- 
tage, making its atmosphere a sympathetic one. 
Many of her water-colors hung on the white 
walls. Everything was fresh and simple and 
clean; the curtains were of white dimity; there 
were soft old Persian rugs on the polished 
floors; everywhere there was a faint perfume 
of lavender and potpourri. The old furniture 
was small and dainty, and did not overcrowd 
the little rooms, whose latticed casements were 


118 


ONLY ANNE 


festooned with pink garlands of Dorothy 
Perkins. The ceilings had dark oak beams, 
and there were pretty white shelves ready for 
the reception of Anne’s books, which arrived 
a few days later in a great case. There was 
no need to think much of outside happenings, 
and Anne honestly tried in those first days to 
forget her Swiss experience, as one forgets 
some mad and wild dream. 

There was a little room in the cottage which 
seemed to be only waiting for Myrtle, should 
she ever discover Anne’s whereabouts, and 
orders were given that it should always be kept 
in readiness for her. It was only at first that 
Anne felt she did not wish to see her. But she 
had read in the papers that Sir Amthony Eger- 
ton had left London suddenly for Central 
Africa, and that he would probably be away 
for a considerable time. His exact destination 
was unknown, but it was mentioned that letters 
sent to him at the Foreign Office would be for- 
warded. There was no danger for the present, 
therefore, of any chance meeting. And when she 
had once recovered her equilibrium after the 
storm — the overwhelming waters — through 
which she had passed, she felt that she could 
almost look forward to seeing Myrtle again. 
Meantime, among the quiet Somersetshire hills 
she could wait and dream. 


ONLY ANNE 


119 


The garden at the back of the cottage was a 
large one, with a shady little orchard at the far 
end. Behind this there were a couple of fields, 
and beyond these again there was a small plan- 
tation of beech trees, with charming mossy 
banks. Anne sat out in her little wood a great 
deal during the hot August days reading and 
working, while timid squirrels peeped out and 
watched her with shy, bright eyes. Middle- 
combe had already become endowed with cer- 
tain home-like qualities for her. She loved the 
quiet little gray village, with its gay gardens, 
her own the gayest and brightest of all, with 
its red-tiled path bordered on both sides with 
a blue mist of delphiniums, and the vivid gar- 
lands of Dorothy Perkins trailing luxuriously 
over the low, white walls and shadowing the lat- 
ticed windows. 

Fate seemed for the moment to hide her 
malicious spirit, and had become a kindly, 
beneficent figure, with no apparent intention to 
clip with her sharp shears the smooth, even 
if colorless thread of Anne’s negative hap- 
piness. 

Myrtle did not discover Anne until she had 
been quite a fortnight at the cottage, and An- 
thony had been gone rather longer on his new 
expedition. 


120 


ONLY ANNE 


She gave no notice of her coming, being 
always a woman of sudden, unpremeditated 
action, and she drove up from Nether Cross — 
the nearest station — in an ancient and moldy 
fly. Clotilde, returning from the post-oflSce 
toward the close of an August day, saw the 
unusual sight of a cab laden with luggage driv- 
ing slowly up the steep hill. A head was poked 
out of the window, and Clotilde recognized the 
occupant and rushed home to acquaint Anne in 
tones of great excitement of Lady Chard’s ap- 
proach. Anne had been writing letters, and 
she rose quickly and went down the garden 
path to meet her friend. 

And she saw Myrtle alight from the ancient 
and lumbering vehicle and run eagerly up the 
path, a radiant, dainty vision, slim and girlish- 
looking in her soft, white muslin dress, her face 
flushed and eager. She seemed to come toward 
her through a blue mist of delphiniums. Her 
vivid charm and beauty had never seemed so 
apparent to Anne. Not only had she exquisite 
coloring, but the grace of her bearing, the 
charm of her expression, were of wonderful 
and almost unreal loveliness. She was like 
some extraordinarily delicate summer flower. 

“Ah, my dearest Nancy — I have found you 
at last !” she cried, and her voice had the quality 


ONLY ANNE 


121 


known as golden. “You must tell me — yes, 
immediately, please — why you have been hid- 
ing from me all these weeks and months. You 
have not written since the beginning of June. 
Clotilde, you must tell Elise how much to give 
the cabman — it will be a fortune, I expect; we 
seem to have driven for miles, from the ends 
of the earth! And where on earth have you 
been, Nan? Not here all the time, surely; it is 
a regular back-of-beyond. Only you could 
have found such a place 1” 

“Come in, dear Myrtle,” said Anne, kissing 
her gravely. She led the way into the little 
drawing-room, leaving Clotilde to cope with 
the cabman and with the very extensive lug- 
gage which Lady Chard had brought with her. 

It was good to see her again ; it did not seem 
possible at first that she could be quite real. 
Anne was glad, even against her better judg- 
ment. that Myrtle had discovered her where- 
abouts and had come. 

“Your room is quite ready for you. Myrtle,” 
she said. 

“Keady?” echoed Myrtle. “Why, you are a 
witch, Anne. You never knew I was coming. 
I did not know it myself till this morning.” 

“It has always been ready for you,” said 
Anne, smiling. 


122 


ONLY ANNE 


“You strange child; you are as full of weird 
dreams and fancies as usual. Do you ever 
come into the real world, Anne, and taste its 
air? I don’t much think you do; you look so 
peaceful, and it is a tiresome place. I some- 
times think your unreal dream-world must be 
the happiest of all!” 

Anne’s taste of the real world had been sweet 
with an everlasting sweetness, and bitter with 
an eternal bitterness, and it was for Myrtle’s 
sake that its loveliness had not endured. She 
did not want to discuss it now. She only said 
quaintly : 

“I find everything extremely real in Middle- 
combe. I know all the children and the ail- 
ments of the whole village!” 

“And you have looked at all the legs?” said 
Myrtle, with a little grimace; “and I suppose 
you know when every baby cut its first tooth? 
But you know quite well I did not mean all 
those sordid and horrible realities !” 

“Who told you where I was?” asked Anne, 
after tea had been brought in and she had given 
Myrtle a cup. 

“Jael told me. I went around to your flat 
and found that the people had left and she had 
come back. I represented myself as being en- 
tirely unable to exist another day without com- 


ONLY ANNE 


123 


municating with you. I believe I even threat- 
ened her if she withheld your address. She 
gave it to me after great hesitation. But I did 
not write ; I thought how charming it would be 
to take you quite by surprise. You deserved 
it, you know, N ancy. Then what does the child 
greet me with but a solemn ‘Your room is ready 
for you. Myrtle!’” 

“Jael is a traitress,” said Anne; “my enemies 
are evidently of my own household!” 

“You mustn’t scold her; she demurred a long 
time. I believe you are a dreadful tyrant to 
your servants, Nancy; they all seem so horribly 
afraid of you. And now,” she said again, 
“are you going to give me a full and detailed 
account of yourself, and tell me why and where 
you have been hiding from me all this time?” 

“No, I am not !” said Anne, laughing. “You 
know how capricious I am; you have often said 
so yourself. You used to tell me you could 
never be sure of anything, not even that I 
should die !” She spoke rapidly and carelessly, 
with a forced gaiety, to hide her emotion. 

Myrtle looked at her, her soft gray eyes full 
of a strange tenderness. Yet there was some- 
thing incredulous and mocking, as well as ap- 
pealing, in her look. 

At that moment she resembled a curious 


124 


ONLY ANNE 


portrait which Sargent had once painted of 
her, smiling in a swift, sudden way, her slight, 
beautiful hands clasped over a fan. But Anne, 
who knew her so well in this mood, greatly pre- 
ferred a portrait done by a very celebrated 
French artist, which Lord Chard could never 
endure ; there was all her strange sadness in it, 
but none of her light mockery. Theosophists 
would have said that her face at such a moment 
held the sadness of innumerable lives, of count- 
less incarnations. 

“So you are still going to keep me in the 
dark, Nancy?” she said. “It would do you such 
a lot of good to tell me all about it ! It is some- 
thing that has hurt you, that is hurting you 
still. I can see that in your eyes. You are 
not to be allowed to hide everything, you see, 
my dear Nancy. Who in the world is he, and 
why are you making yourself so desperately 
unhappy about him?” 

“I am not making myself unhappy about 
any one,” said Anne. 

But in her ears the river of melted snows was 
sounding desolately, as it flowed in summer- 
time from its once frozen fastnesses. And be- 
yond was the giant fang of Mont Cervin, white 
and pallid against a background of dark-blue 
sky, studded with the scattered radiance of 


ONLY ANNE 


125 


millions of silver stars. And a cold ice-wind 
came across the snows and sobbed among the 
pine trees. 

Myrtle ceased teasing her. 

“You poor little Nancy,” she said; “you shall 
not be worried, and I will not ask you to tell 
me a single word about it all. But you have 
not been happy in your exile, and I am really 
not very sorry. It serves you right for run- 
ning away like that. Still, you look ill and 
tired now, and as if you wanted a little petting, 
and I have come to pet you. I will be very 
discreet, and you shall not be pestered with 
questions. And some day you will remember 
how safe I am, and you will tell me all about it, 
and who this mysterious person is who sent you 
flying off to the other end of nowhere!” 

“Where is Pat?” asked Anne suddenly. 
She longed to turn the attention of Myrtle to 
a safer topic. 

“He has gone to Marienbad with two men- 
nurses,” she said; “he is very weak and help- 
less, but he is really better and free from pain. 
The doctors said my going was of no use, as I 
should certainly break down. I don’t want to 
break down ; it makes one look so old and ugly. 
All emotions do. I have said good-by to emo- 
tions, Nancy, and I mean to be the hard, stupid 


126 


ONLY ANNE 


cow sort of woman that tramples clumsily on 
every one and never gets hurt herself. J ust like 
your dear friend Mrs. Grayle. One can grow a 
thick skin, surely, if it is necessary, when one 
lives in an environment of prickles, just like 
the giraffe grows a long neck to enable him to 
eat off the tops of palm-trees 1 I shall begin 
to grow my hard skin at once.’’ She babbled 
on in her old way — the chatter, half-sad, half- 
sweet, that Anne knew so well and which she 
was so absurdly, ridiculously glad to hear 
again. “In a few weeks I am to join Pat 
somewhere abroad, unless he insists upon com- 
ing down to Chardford. He is better, but he 
does look so frightfully ill — sometimes it is 
difficult to believe that he is really alive !” She 
was all seriousness again now, and she choked 
back something that might have been either a 
laugh or a sob. Anne thought it was the most 
pitiful, heart-rending sound she had ever heard. 
“The doctor told me the other day that few 
wives could claim to be as devoted as I was. 
He even said I was a wonderful nurse — I, 
who hate illness and everything to do with it. 
Nan, you see I am becoming an example, but 
it has been hard work. Can you see the wings 
sprouting?” 

She turned a slim shoulder to Anne, who 


ONLY ANNE 


127 


noticed suddenly and rather inconsequently 
how thin she had become. 

“Poor Pat,” continued Myrtle; “he looks 
terrible; I hope he never sees himself in the 
glass. I have felt quite afraid of him some- 
times when I have been watching him at night 
— alone.” 

She shuddered. 

“Don’t, Myrtle,” said Anne. “Try and for- 
get it while you are here. I am sure it must 
have been dreadful for you — all these last 
weeks.” 

Remorse seized her that she had left her to 
bear it all alone, and, after all, her going had 
been of no avail, since Anthony had sought her 
out with such fierce pertinacity. For the first 
time, she felt thankful in some dim, desolate 
way that she had been strong enough to send 
Anthony away — Anthony, whose voice seemed 
now to sound across the silence. 

To both of them Anthony had offered mar- 
riage, and both had refused him; one because 
she had not then learned to love him ; the other 
because she had read the secret of her friend’s 
heart, and could not rob her of an ultimate 
happiness that, humanly speaking, might soon 
be within her reach. The old enigma re- 
mained, the riddle that had haunted Anne ever 


128 


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since her parting with him. Had he loved her? 
Had she taken Myrtle’s place in his heart? 
There had been moments during their inter- 
view when he had, indeed, almost persuaded 
her that this was the case. 

“This is a dear little place, Nan,” said 
Myrtle, looking around the room. “I shall 
stay with you for quite a long, long time, if 
you will let me, and forget all these horrors.” 

“But, my dear Myrtle, where shall I put 
your trunks ? It is such a tiny place, and your 
room is only a box. I have only Clotilde and 
a cook and a woman who comes in from the 
village. It is very primitive; I am sure you 
won’t like it.” 

With this dainty figure in front of her, Anne 
realized with many misgivings the shortcom- 
ings of her cottage household, the limitations 
of her little abode. “Clotilde does all she can, 
but I assure you I am living the simple life.” 

“Oh, we shall manage,” said Myrtle cheer- 
fully. “Elise can do lots of things. You must 
not bother about me at all, if you will only let 
me stay. I seem to have been dreaming about 
just such a place as this, fresh and clean, with 
no horrible smell of drugs and disinfectants. 
Brook Street is like a hospital for that now - 
it is hateful.” 


ONLY ANNE 


129 


The sudden tears came into her eyes. 

“At least this is simple and innocent and 
clean, and I can begin to grow my hard skin, 
so that when I have to go back I shall be a 
more wonderful nurse than ever.” Again there 
was bitterness in her speech. 

Anne knew that she would probably hear a 
great deal more as time went on, and perhaps 
it would prove a grim little story. Only in 
return she would have no tale to tell. She 
could never mention her hasty and abrupt 
flight to Zermatt ; she could tell her nothing of 
her meeting with Anthony Egerton amid the 
frozen fastnesses of the Alps. 

And, as if Myrtle were in some sense read- 
ing her thoughts, she said suddenly: 

“I heard from Tony Egerton; he has gone 
away again, you know. He said he should go 
much farther and stay longer away. Nan, 
why don’t you like him? I always thought you 
would be sure to get on so well together!” 

“But I do like him. Myrtle. I think him 
very charming and agreeable,” she stammered. 

“Charming — agreeable — that is not at all 
the way to describe him!” said Myrtle con- 
temptuously. “Don’t you realize how power- 
ful he is — what a brain he has behind all that 
suavity and apparent carelessness?” 


130 


ONLY ANNE 


“Oh, yes; I think I do. I mean I do appre- 
ciate his qualities.” 

“I thought your manner was horrid to him 
sometimes,” said Myrtle; “I used to be afraid 
he would be offended. Every one spoils Tony 
and likes him; he is not at all accustomed to 
being snubbed.” 

Anne, looking beyond Myrtle, seemed to 
see Anthony’s form, upright and strong, stand- 
ing in front of her; she could hear his voice say- 
ing that he loved her, entreating her, too, to 
tell him if the barrier that was keeping them 
apart should ever be removed. She saw again 
his blue, flashing eyes searching hers so relent- 
lessly in the cold, austere moonlight as he lifted 
her face to his. This, then, was why his pride 
had been so hurt that it had even simulated a 
wounded love. He was not — as Myrtle said — 
accustomed. 

The singing voice of the river echoed across 
the silence, the song of the happy, dancing 
Visp that seeks and finds the green peace of 
the smiling and fertile Rhone Valley. Even 
so, she had once seen the fair and vine-clad 
valley lying at her feet — a kingdom rich and 
precious that was hers for the taking — and she 
could not take it. 

“You look as if you were listening to some- 


ONLY ANNE 131 

thing, Nancy,” said Myrtle. “What is it, 
dear?” 

Anne said dreamily: 

“I — I thought I heard something. You 
know, I have been so much alone I believe that 
I have taken to day-dreaming!” 

“Tony went off at a moment’s notice, as 
usual,” said Myrtle; “he could not tell me 
where he was going, beyond a vague ‘some- 
where in Africa.’ He is almost as silent 
and secretive and mysterious as you are, 
Nancy !” 

“Myrtle, you mustn’t be vexed. I was so 
tired and worried — and I wanted to go away. 
I was sorry to leave you; please believe that. 
And now I am so very, very glad to have you 
here again.” 

Presently, to her relief, Myrtle rose and 
went to the window. Through the sweet, pink 
clusters of Dorothy Perkins they could see the 
sky filled with a flame of pale, golden fire. 
Rose-colored, web-like clouds drifted slowly 
across the shining glow that seemed to have set 
the heavens alight. 

Myrtle quoted: “‘We tired the sun with 
talking and sent him down the sky!’ Only I 
have done almost all the talking ; you have been 
sitting there quite mum. Living alone doesn’t 


132 


ONLY ANNE 


suit you, Anne ; you will become quite dull. I 
believe you are suffering from some horrible 
scruple.” She looked at her with her big, wist- 
ful gray eyes, and Anne began again to fear 
that she would drag her poor little secret from 
her. 

“Oh, but you can’t think how nice it is to 
have some one to talk to again,” she said 
eagerly. “I have been alone so long, with only 
my own thoughts for company. I like to hear 
you talk!” 

“Come and show me my cabin,” said Myrtle, 
slipping her hand in Anne’s arm. 

They went upstairs together, and Anne 
showed her the little room. 

“It has always been waiting for you,” she 
said. 

“It is lovely,” said Myrtle; “I can smell 
lavender. And what pretty curtains! Oh, 
Nan dear, I shall sleep to-night. I haven’t 
slept for ages.” 

“Yes; I hope you will sleep well,” said 
Anne; “there are no noises to disturb you. 
Nothing, at least, till six o’clock, when, per- 
haps, the Angelus may wake you.” 

Myrtle stooped down and kissed her. 

“Oh, Nancy,” she said, quite penitently, “I 
had such hard thoughts of you. I made myself 


ONLY ANNE 


133 


believe that you had run away to escape me. 
I was afraid you had found out at last what a 
tiresome, unsatisfactory person I was.” 

Anne looked at her with a little enigmatic 
smile. 

“My dear Myrtle,” she said, “I shouldn’t 
mind how tiresome and unsatisfactory you 
were. You can be just what you choose.” 

“I believe you are really faithful, Nancy,” 
said Myrtle; “the one faithful person in all the 
world.” 

Anne left her then, having extracted a prom- 
ise from her that she would lie down and rest, 
and departed to consult Clotilde upon the now 
important subject of dinner. 


CHAPTER X 


“It’s nice to wake up and hear blackbirds and 
thrushes and things!” said Myrtle, as she came 
down about eleven on the following day, wear- 
ing a cool, thin dress of white muslin, cut open 
at the throat. “What books have you got, 
Anne? I’ve read nothing for years, and I 
want to have a perfect orgy of novel-reading to 
distract my mind!” 

“There are some new ones,” said Anne, 
going to a little shelf near the fireplace. She 
took them out one by one and handed them to 
Myrtle, who gave a casual glance at them. 
Then, selecting a few, she sat down near the 
open window and began to turn over their 
pages in an idle manner. She glanced at their 
contents in a desultory fashion, after the man- 
ner of a practised novel-reader, who can de- 
termine almost at first glance if the contents 
are likely to prove interesting. 

Presently she looked up. 

“Do you spend all your morning over the 
butcher and baker and other domesticities, 
Nancy?” she inquired. 

134 


ONLY ANNE 


135 


“Certainly not,” replied Anne. “I did all 
that ages ago, before you came down.” 

“Then do sit down and talk. Don’t please 
write letters.” 

“I have none to write,” said Anne, smiling. 

She saw that Myrtle, in spite of her pre- 
vious assertion, was in no mood for reading. 
She ceased to turn over the pages of the books 
and gazed idly out of the window. 

“So you really expected me, Nancy?” she 
asked. “You really believed I should divine 
your whereabouts and seek you, not knowing 
in the least whether I should be welcome or 
not?” 

“I am sure I did. I kept your room ready, 
as you saw. I was beginning to hope you 
would come soon. Myrtle. And I wasn’t at all 
surprised, somehow, when Clotilde came to tell 
me that she had seen you driving up the road.” 

“Even though you hadn’t told me where 
you were?” 

“I knew you would find me if you wanted 
to,” said Anne gravely. 

Myrtle laughed. 

“You deserted me. Nan. I thought you 
were sick of me and my domestic worries. 
Tony went away, too. I had always thought, 
until then, that I could rely upon you both in 


136 


ONLY ANNE 


such a time of need. But you were, of course, 
both quite right to escape from the awful heat 
and dust; the memory of it is a perfect night- 
mare !” 

“But you know you can always rely upon 
me. Myrtle,” said Anne. 

“Even when you take these unprecedented 
flights into space?” 

“Perhaps my wings are tired. I shall take 
no more flights !” 

Myrtle shook her head. “You are a dear, 
mysterious child,” she said; “and I have never 
seen you look so pale and solemn before ! Are 
you not ever going to tell me all about it?” 

“Don’t ask me any questions, please. Myrtle 
dear. You know women always get reserved 
and secretive when they live alone. I would 
tell you all about it if I could. I have been 
rather unhappy ; but it is all right now.” 

“You don’t look at all as if it were all right,” 
said Myrtle. “But I suppose it is something 
you have packed up in a corner of your mind, 
resolving never to look at it again. I’m not 
sure that isn’t the best plan if something wor- 
ries one very much. However, you shall tell 
me all about it when you feel inclined — and 
perhaps you will ask me to the wedding!” 

“Oh, there won’t be a wedding,” said Anne 


ONLY ANNE 


137 


hastily; “I am quite sure I shall never marry, 
Myrtle. Don’t you think I am beginning to 
look quite like an old maid?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nancy; you don’t look 
like anything of the kind !” 

Outside, in the grove of lilac bushes, a thrush 
was singing, with the soft and thrilling sweet- 
ness of a silver flute. He sang his song of 
love and spring and the glad earth, almost as 
if it had, indeed, been springtime. The sound 
was both joyous and haunting. 

“I should like to be a bird,” said Myrtle 
suddenly, “to love and sing and be quite free. 
Who can ask more ? Life is so difficult. Every- 
thing seems to come to us either too soon or 
too late.” Her small, vivid face was curiously 
moved. “Ah, Nan dear, to love and be free!” 

Perhaps she was thinking of her own prison- 
ing, of the bonds which held her so firmly. Be- 
yond lay a love and peace, a tranquillity of 
which now she did not dare even to dream. The 
little brown thrush had finished his song and 
had flown across the garden with a soft flutter 
of downy wings. 

“I believe I am getting horribly nervous and 
morbid,” she said; “but you can not imagine 
what it has been like to see Pat suffering so 
dreadfully! To watch it going on daj^ after 


138 


ONLY ANNE 


day and to know that nothing but death could 
release him. You will think me heartless for 
even thinking of myself at such a time, but it 
was simply awful — the want of rest and that 
deadly, suffocating, airless heat. I am to have 
three weeks’ peace — if you will give it to me, 
Nancy — and then I shall go back to it again.” 
She set her lips. “You know how I have 
always hated having anything to do with ill- 
ness. Some women like it, I believe!” 

But the rest and peace of Middlecombe did a 
good deal for her in those first days of her stay. 
It was veiy restful to have Anne always there, 
quiet, reposeful, and sympathetic, and minis- 
tering unobtrusively to all her needs. She read 
a little, sat out in the shady beech-woods, which 
formed a cool refuge during the August heats, 
and almost refused to allow Anne out of her 
sight. It was as if she dared not be left alone 
with her own thoughts. Not for some years 
had they spent so long a time together. But 
Anne, from previous experience of Myrtle, 
knew quite well that she would not continue 
long in this indolent, listless mood. Just now 
she only wanted leisure in which to rest and 
sleep. Her nerves were on edge and she was 
quite worn out, almost at breaking point. Her 


ONLY ANNE 


139 


malady was really physical, and was the result 
of severe strain. 

Anne was right, for in little more than a 
week Myrtle came to her abruptly one morn- 
ing and said that the fields and the distant 
Mendips were beginning to get on her nerves 
quite as much as the perpetual clatter of Brook 
Street had done, and she had telegraphed for 
the motor to come, so that they might go for 
some expeditions together. 

Anne had, indeed, been expecting something 
of the kind, for during the last few days Myrtle 
had been exhibiting unmistakable signs of rest- 
lessness, almost of irritability. She was always 
accustomed to movement and excitement, and 
she was in far too nervous a condition to sit 
still unoccupied for long. Their amusements 
were necessarily very restricted, and the soli- 
tary trap which the village boasted was capable 
of little more than the ordinary station work. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you have sent for it. 
Myrtle,” she said; “I was so afraid you would 
get bored, with nothing in the world to do.” 

The arrival of the motor was, indeed, quite 
an event in Middlecombe. The whole village 
turned out to look at its large, gray form; the 
small boys shrieked pip-pip, and the French 
chauffeur was the hero of the hour. 


140 


ONLY ANNE 


Anne procured a large-scale map, and to- 
gether she and Myrtk amused themselves by 
poring over it for a whole morning. They 
looked up the exact whereabouts of all their 
friends who lived within a radius of thirty or 
forty miles. They found a great many, but, 
alas! those who lived within even lesser dis- 
tances were — from Anne’s point of view — far 
too numerous. She had liked the idea of the 
motor, but she did not at all wish to visit people. 
Places she could have endured, and a moderate 
amount of sight-seeing, and very tentatively 
she suggested such names as Glastonbury, 
Wells, and Stonehenge to Myrtle. But this 
suggestion did not at all please Lady Chard. 
She wished for something more to distract her 
mind than buildings and churches and druidi- 
cal remains, she assured Anne, with a gay 
laugh. 

Anne gave in, as she always did, when 
Myrtle expressed her will, nor did she display 
any of the dismay she felt at the prospect of 
being thus dragged from her sheltered seclu- 
sion and made to face a world from which she 
had longed so passionately to escape just for 
a few months. Had she expressed any un- 
willingness to adopt her friend’s programme. 
Myrtle would have at once been on the alert 


ONLY ANNE 


141 


to discover a reason for Anne’s novel and 
shrinking attitude. Although she had never 
cared much for gaiety, and preferred a quiet 
and studious life, she had always been sociable 
and had gone about a good deal among her 
own little circle of chosen friends. 

But why Myrtle should suddenly have dis- 
covered that it was absolutely and imperatively 
necessary to her happiness to pay a visit to 
Elsham was a thing that was quite beyond poor 
Anne’s powers of comprehension. There was 
no place that she herself less desired to see at 
that moment. She dreaded to meet her uncle, 
with his ceaseless chaff, his eternally indiscreet 
questions, his silly little intimate jokes at her 
expense. She would almost have preferred to 
meet an openly malicious enemy — had she pos- 
sessed such a thing — than this excellently in- 
tentioned and benevolent old gentleman. Once 
more she felt as if fate were reassuming that 
old malignant attitude toward her. The over- 
throw of her plans was threatening to become 
as complete as it had been when she had fled 
to Zermatt — almost into the very arms of 
Anthony Egerton. No — the very prospect of 
going to Elsham alarmed her unspeakably. 
She did not at all desire to give Uncle Vin an 
account of herself, as he would humorously but 


142 


ONLY ANNE 


inevitably call upon her to do. He was posi- 
tively the most unsafe person in the world for 
any one to encounter who had the smallest 
secret. Indeed, if one were in possession of 
that extremely harassing and unpleasant 
thing, it was far wiser to keep out of his path 
altogether. It was a physical impossibility for 
him to refrain from telling every one he knew 
anything that he considered at all private about 
another person’s affairs, and he always did it 
with the altruistic motive of obtaining either 
advice or assistance on their behalf. “I con- 
sulted him,” he would say jubilantly and with 
an air of benevolent triumph which made his 
unhappy victims wriggle, “about poor Mrs. 
So-and-So. And he quite agreed with me that 
there was simply no other course open to her !” 

Mr. Vincent Travers did in this way more 
harm than it was possible to estimate ; an inten- 
tionally hostile and purposely malevolent per- 
son could certainly never have attained to his 
record. 

But Anne’s protests and objections died on 
her lips when she saw how thoroughly Myrtle 
had set her heart on the expedition. So she 
even lent assistance to her evil fairy, becoming, 
so to speak, an accessory in the perpetration of 
this crowning and unparalleled folly, by wiring 


ONLY ANNE 


143 


to Uncle Vin inviting herself and Myrtle to 
luncheon on the following day. His answer 
was, of course, enormously enthusiastic, and 
they started forth in superb weather about 
eleven o’clock the next morning. 

The road between Middlecombe and Elsham 
cut fairly straight northward from Somerset- 
shire into Gloucestershire, and then through 
the latter county in a slightly eastward direc- 
tion. Once beyond Challerton — ancient camp- 
ing-ground of Cromwell’s violent and destruct- 
ive soldiers — Anne knew every inch of the old 
Roman road. It went straight up and down 
the wolds — a long, white, shining thread — 
many miles through that desolate part of the 
Cotswolds which is still unbroken by any rail- 
way. Sometimes they dipped down into 
charming, homely looking valleys, where gray, 
old-world, sleepy villages nestled among deep 
beech- woods and followed the curves of a tran- 
quil trout-stream. But it was only to return 
slowly to the summits of those austere, bleak 
hills across which the wind blew — even on that 
hot day of August — with a chill freshness. 

The road was good, although steep in places, 
but Myrtle’s big limousine made light of that, 
and they encountered but little traffic. The 
corn had ripened to a rich bronze and the shrill 


144 


ONLY ANNE 


hoot of the motor startled innumerable birds 
that were feasting royally among the wheat. 
A thin, mauve mist of scabious and harebells 
bordered the strip of grass that fringed the 
road under the low, gray stone walls. Here 
and there a bright patch of goldenrod and rag- 
wort shone brightly yellow in the sunshine. 
The infrequent hedges were thickly covered 
with white dust, for the drought had now been 
of considerable duration. In some of the more 
sheltered places the harvest was already being 
reaped, and they passed groups of strong, sun- 
burned workers, who turned to watch their 
swift traveling. 

They came suddenly upon Elsham; it lay 
hidden in a valley, and a sharp curve of the 
road disclosed it. Myrtle gave a little cry of 
pleasure. 

“Oh, N ancy ! Doesn’t it look lovely ? There 
is no place like it in all the world ! It is much 
more like home to me than any of Pat’s great, 
dull houses!” 

She had always had a great love for the old 
place, and she and Anne had spent many glori- 
ous summer holidays there together in the old 
days. Even then it had seemed to Myrtle a 
place of release after prison, for, though she 
had been very happy at the convent, her own 


ONLY ANNE 


145 


home had been rendered extremely distasteful 
to her by the presence of a stepmother, whose 
chilling indifference and absorption in her own 
children had been a severe trial to her. 

Elsham Abbey looked ahnost like a little col- 
ony of its own, nestling thus on the side of a 
hill just above the river, which showed here and 
there in furtive glimpses of bright silver. The 
dark-green summer woods, with their shadows 
of pure indigo, surrounded the house and gar- 
den on three sides, and on the fourth flat 
meadows dipped down to the river. A little 
higher up the road stood the Benedictine mon- 
astery which Anne’s father had built almost 
on the very site of the one that had been de- 
spoiled by the ruthless hand of Henry VIII. 
He had also built the little church, with its gray 
tower modeled exactly upon the one of the 
eleventh century churches that abound in 
Gloucestershire. 

“I never come here,” said Myrtle, “without 
thinking of that old saying: ^As sure as God's 
in Gloucestershire/ ” 

Anne was silent. Her eyes were fixed rather 
wistfully upon her old home. She had not been 
there since the preceding winter, and now it 
seemed to her that a whole lifetime divided her 
from that last visit — a life, vivid and dramatic. 


146 


ONLY ANNE 


that had witnessed for the first time the en- 
trance upon her little stage of love, the con- 
queror. It had swept her from the even tenor 
of her quiet, rather colorless days into a strong, 
bewildering flood of strange, unexpected hap- 
penings and of turbulent, overwhelming emo- 
tions. Even her escape from it — the swift cut- 
ting of the knot — had been a sharp and painful 
thing that had inflicted a deep wound. That 
mad flight from happiness had cost her, per- 
haps, more than she could yet realize. The 
thought that she had deliberately done it for 
Myrtle’s sake seemed to turn the knife in her 
wound. She wanted peace — and the gods had 
bitterly denied this healing balm. They were 
insatiable, demanding still further sacrifices, 
and it was always Myrtle. 

Sitting silent beside her in the tonneau of 
the car, she tried to derive some satisfaction 
from Myrtle’s obvious pleasure. She could see 
that she was looking much better than she had 
done on the day she first arrived at the cottage, 
and the soft wind had put new color into her 
rather white, wan face, and made her gray eyes 
bright and glowing. She looked charming, and 
as they drew up at the door of the Abbey she 
was smiling in a happy, tranquil fashion that 
delighted poor Anne, to whom the visit prom- 
ised anything but pleasure. 


CHAPTER XI 


The car had hardly stopped when the door was 
flung open and the little, dapper form of Mr. 
Vincent Travers appeared, his face, which was 
rather round and rubicund and rosy, beaming 
with satisfaction and pleasure. He seemed to 
exude benevolence and hospitality of the old- 
fashioned and hearty kind, which is so often 
eminently trying to a generation that is in- 
clined to take its pleasure coldly and without 
enthusiasm. 

He held out both hands to Lady Chard, who 
smiled divinely upon him; he embraced Anne 
with warm affection, a process which she ex- 
tremely disliked ; then he ushered them into the 
hall, having included even the chauffeur in his 
beneficent welcome. To Anne’s great relief, 
the melancholy Vincent was abroad, and only 
the younger son, Conrad, a taciturn and rather 
cynical youth in his third year at Oxford, was 
present. 

They went into the cool, shady hall, which 
was large and spacious and contained some 
valuable armor and pictures. Myrtle and Mr. 
Travers were eagerly discussing old times when 
the sound of carriage wheels was heard out- 
147 


148 


ONLY ANNE 


side, followed about two minutes later by a 
loud ring at the bell. 

Anne literally did not dare put her fear into 
words, but it invaded her heart like a cold 
flood. She seemed to know so well whom she 
should see when the great oak door should once 
more be thrown open. Her fears were con- 
firmed when she heard a voice say: “I hope we 
are not late? I always tell Jenkins to drive 
slowly in this heat!” 

The voice was unmistakable, and in another 
moment Mrs. Grayle and her two daughters 
marched into the hall. Anne felt as she saw 
them approach that she had never seen a more 
perfect example of that peculiarly British 
trait — a habit of looking as if all places be- 
longed to them — than was possessed by this 
trio. With them, too, there was always the 
suggestion that, however exalted the venue 
might be, they considered themselves infinitely 
superior to it. 

Mrs. Grayle’s sandy hair was bunched out 
more aggressively than usual; she was some- 
what heated looking, as if she were displeased 
with the temperature, and her pale eyes seemed 
to bulge as they rested with a glance of keen 
curiosity upon Myrtle and Anne. 

Anne never forgot her sensations upon be- 


ONLY ANNE 


149 


holding those very persons from whom she had 
been at such infinite pains to escape only a few 
weeks before. All the first feeling of anxiety 
which had made her so desire to veto Myrtle’s 
project of visiting Elsham returned to her with 
full force. It had been inconceivably, almost 
criminally, stupid of her to give in so weakly 
without the pretence of a struggle. And had 
she entreated Uncle Vin not to invite the 
Grayles she knew that his very first action 
would have been to telephone to Mrs. Grayle 
and inquire if she had quarreled with Anne, 
and if so, what was it all about, and couldn’t 
he do or say anything to make it all right 
again, and help them to bury the hatchet ! Mr. 
Travers was never so indiscreet as when talk- 
ing on the telephone. At such times even the 
most common reticence seemed instantly to 
forsake him. 

Anne gathered immediately that, having 
sent his reply to her telegram on the previous 
day. Uncle Vin had forthwith rung up Mrs. 
Grayle and had invited her to bring her two 
daughters to luncheon to meet his niece and 
Lady Chard. He loved always to see the un- 
willing lamb lie down with the predatory lion, 
forgetting that the millennium was still a far- 
off and divine event. He was invariably con- 


150 


ONLY ANNE 


vinced that if people knew each other they 
must also be delighted to meet; if, on the other 
hand, they did not happen to be acquainted 
with each other, his reckless and unconsidered 
introductions were a source of infinite and con- 
tinual mortification to his friends and family. 

“Ah, there you are!” he cried, playfully 
dashing with surprising activity across the hall 
and proceeding to give the Grayle party a re- 
ception hardly less fervent and enthusiastic 
than that which he had so recently bestowed 
upon Myrtle and Anne. “I knew you would 
never forgive me, dear Mrs. Grayle, if I al- 
lowed this little girl to come here without tell- 
ing you. I felt it would be selfish to keep such 
an unexpected pleasure all to myself! And, of 
course, you remember Lady Chard — our little 
Myrtle, we used to call her in the old days! 
She has just been telling me that no place has 
ever seemed so much like home to her as Els- 
ham!” 

And he beamed upon all five women with 
his generous, opulent smile, little dreaming 
that his wretched niece’s heart had simk, as the 
saying goes, literally into her boots at this most 
unfortunate encounter. 

Deep depression immediately descended 
upon at least two of his victims as they beheld 


ONLY ANNE 


151 


the approach of her whom Myrtle had once 
bitterly epitomized as a “relic of Slater’s.” 

Anne’s voice was scarcely audible as she 
greeted her, and Myrtle immediately froze, 
assuming her most haughty and unapproach- 
able manner. She met Mrs. Grayle’s rather 
effusive greeting with a stony stare, and Anne 
derived a dismal satisfaction from the knowl- 
edge that Myrtle had already begun to repent 
that she had ever suggested the expedition. 

Anne was not long left in suspense. Mrs. 
Grayle at once proceeded to place her victim 
upon the rack. 

“We haven’t met since Zermatt, my dear 
Anne,” she said. “How very suddenly you 
went away! I always think that only a week 
in Switzerland does one more harm than good ! 
One does not have a chance of becoming ac- 
climatized! We all thought you had eloped 
with that very good-looking man with whom 
you dined alone at the Riffel Alp, as he dis- 
appeared much about the same time,” she went 
on, with elephantine pleasantry. “No one 
could tell me who he was, which made it even 
more mysterious. I was quite afraid you had 
picked up an adventurer, as I have heard of 
young girls doing when traveling alone. And 
he never wrote his name in the book. So care- 


152 


ONLY ANNE 


less of the manager, who could not tell me in 
the least who he was ! He might have been an 
anarchist, and blown up the hotel with one of 
his horrid bombs!” 

Even Myrtle turned and gave Anne a swift 
little look of surprise when Mrs. Grayle had 
delivered herself of this amazing speech. And 
as those gray, soft eyes rested upon her Anne 
felt that suspicion as to that unknown com- 
panion’s identity must be rife in her mind. 

It was a terrible moment, and poor Anne 
devoutly wished that the kindly earth would 
open and swallow her up. 

“Why, Nan,” cried Uncle Vin delightedly, 
“you never told me that you had been to Zer- 
matt, much less that you had been seen dining 
alone with anarchical-looking young men!” 
He rubbed his hands in almost delirious enjoy- 
ment; this was exactly the kind of conversa- 
tion he thoroughly appreciated, and Anne’s 
crimson confusion increased his pleasure a him- 
dredfold. “Who was he, Nancy?” 

“A — friend — ” said Anne desperately. “I 
— I did not pick him up. We met quite by 
accident. I did not know he was in Switzer- 
land. I have known him for some time! He 
insisted upon our dining together — we had 
some business to talk over.” 


ONLY ANNE 


153 


“Business !” Uncle Vin wagged a finger at 
her in beaming incredulity. “I expect he had! 
When is it to come off, Nan?’’ 

Anne’s labored and stammering phrases had 
had the effect of stimulating the curiosity of 
all those present. Even Myrtle did not spare 
her, for she turned to Mrs. Grayle and said in 
an icy tone: 

“Do tell me what he was like, Mrs. Grayle. 
What made you think he might be an anar- 
chist?” 

“Oh, he didn’t really look at all like one; 
only, as Vera very cleverly pointed out, he did 
look rather like a Russian; he had such a for- 
eign way of doing his hair! The English 
milord, the manager called him, but you know 
how vague that sort of person is about English 
titles. He was tall and rather distinguished 
looking. Quite the look of being very much his 
own master. Won’t you tell us his name, 
Anne? Is it because he is such a celebrity that 
you do not like to give him away?” 

“Yes, Nancy, do tell us,” said Myrtle; “why 
must you make such a foolish, unnecessary 
mystery?” 

“His name does not matter,” said Anne in 
desperation ; “if you heard it, Mrs. Grayle, I do 
not think it would convey anything to you. 


154 


ONLY ANNE 


And he was not milord at all.” For one wild 
moment she had contemplated the possibility of 
endowing Anthony with some commonplace 
alias. She wished now most heartily that she 
had never gone away mysteriously, and that, 
above all, she had not concealed that fortuitous 
meeting with Anthony Egerton at the Riffel 
Alp from Myrtle Chard. 

Now, if the name of her mysterious . com- 
panion should ever reach Myrtle’s ears, she 
would, indeed, and most justifiably, believe 
that Anne had something to hide from her, 
something which intimately concerned An- 
thony and herself. 

“You see that Anne is determined not to 
tell us,” said Myrtle in a cold, changed tone; 
“it is useless to cross-question her, and we are 
such a large party of inquisitors that it seems 
hardly fair!” 

Mrs. Grayle regarded her as if she were a 
little uncertain as to whether this speech in- 
volved herself or Anne in the greater condem- 
nation, since its obvious irony was evidently 
directed at both of them. 

She merely said : 

“At any rate, I am extremely glad to see 
that you and Anne have made up your little 
differences! I thought there must have been a 


ONLY ANNE 


155 


positive estrangement, since Anne ran off like 
that quite by herself to Zermatt. She never 
seemed to hear from you while she was there, 
did you, Anne? And poor Lord Chard was so 
very ill just then!'’ 

“There are occasions when we all forget our 
women friends, Mrs. Grayle,” said Myrtle. 
“Even Anne is not immune from them!” 

“Ah, yes; I suppose so,” and Mrs. Grayle 
gave a fat sigh. “Still, it was distressing to 
read such bad bulletins in the paper; you had 
all my sympathy, I assure you!” 

Instinctively Anne glanced at Mrs. Grayle’s 
fat, white, freckled hands, as if to assure her- 
self that they possessed no claws, so venom- 
ously feline was she when she made this speech. 

“I hope he is much better now,” she went 
on. “I feel sure he must be, or you would not 
be here to-day. I am sure you would not have 
left him! Or perhaps he is also staying at this 
cottage where this strange, independent child 
has settled herself, as Mr. Travers tells me she 
has.” She gave Anne a look of playful fa- 
miliarity. 

“He is at Marienbad,” said Myrtle briefly. 

“No doubt you will join him later?” said 
Mrs. Grayle. 

Anne was exceedingly sorry for Myrtle now. 


156 


ONLY ANNE 


but she felt at the same time some sense of 
relief that the general kttraction had thus been 
diverted from herself into another and possibly 
fruitful channel. 

“Not while he is there. I detest Marien- 
bad,” said Myrtle. “I hate places where one 
sees nothing but ill people, or people who think 
themselves ill!” 

“But surely you do not leave him to 
strangers?” 

“Oh, no ; both his attendants have been with 
him for quite a long time.” No one could im- 
agine a greater contrast than that presented by 
these two women — Myrtle, with her delicate 
and fragile beauty, almost reminiscent of a 
lovely lotus bloom, and Mrs. Grayle, over- 
heated, stout, loud of voice, and boldly inquisi- 
torial. She was enraged by Lady Chard’s 
cool and supercilious manner. 

Mr. Travers was, however, perfectly satis- 
fied that his party was an immense success, and 
that all his guests were enjoying themselves, 
being mutually delighted to see one another. 
He thought that Mrs. Grayle was evincing a 
very kind and proper anxiety about I^ord 
Chard’s health and comfort (he had himself 
gone nearer to disliking him than any man he 
had ever met) , nor did he in the least discern 


ONLY ANNE 


157 


the clash of swords in this little warfare of 
words, deeming it quite natural that Mrs. 
Grayle should take a sympathetic interest in 
the arrangements that had been made for Lord 
Chard’s comfort while he was abroad. She was 
always such a kind, motherly person, and so 
solicitous for others — why, she had even told 
him that it was bad for poor little Nancy to be 
left so much to her own devices! 

It was a relief to all his guests when luncheon 
was at last announced and they made a move 
into the big oak-paneled dining-room. Their 
spirits were, however, somewhat shattered. 
Uncle Vin took the opportunity of seizing 
Anne’s arm on the way in, chuckling in a sly 
manner and calling her a little puss not to have 
told her old uncle all about it. He added that 
he was sure she would confide in him by and 
by. “Might have known what you were up 
to,” he said in a loud whisper that must have 
been perfectly audible to every one present; 
“look at my poor boy Vincent — he hasn’t got 
over it yet!” 

Poor Anne took her seat at the table won- 
dering what further horrors the day might yet 
hold for her. In contrast to her agitated and 
mortified embarrassment Myrtle sat there 
looking remarkably cool and dainty, and not 


158 


ONLY ANNE 


altogether displeased at the inquisition to 
which her friend had heen subjected. 

Why had she ever sought out Anne in her 
well-planned retreat at Middlecombe — most 
remote and unfrequented of Mendip fast- 
nesses? Why had she insisted upon this en- 
tirely odious and unnecessary expedition to 
Elsham? Above all, why had Uncle Vin com- 
mitted the crowning folly of inviting Mrs. 
Grayle to luncheon to meet them? Her miser- 
able secret was already more than half di- 
vulged, and it was not difficult to see that 
Myrtle’s suspicions were thoroughly aroused. 

They lunched in the very long and deliberate 
fashion which Mr. Travers preferred, and 
which testified to the superior digestive powers 
of the older generation. Course after course 
was placed before them. Anne at mechani- 
cally, knowing nothing of what was on her 
plate. Myrtle scarcely touched anything, 
though she toyed with innumerable scraps. 
Only the Grayles did full justice to the meal 
and appeared to be endowed with the most 
robust and insatiable appetites. “We are so 
much in the open air,” said Mrs. Grayle — it 
was one of her favorite speeches — “there is 
nothing so conducive to healthy hunger!” 

“And what have you done with your Fred, 


ONLY ANNE 


159 


Ethel?” inquired Mr. Travers, to whom an en- 
gagement was always a pure delight, affording 
an unlimited occasion for humorous persiflage. 
“Why didn’t you bring him?” 

“He has been away the last few days,” said 
Ethel, bridling at the mention of Captain 
Westbrook; “but he is coming back by the mid- 
day train, and promised to call here on his way, 
and go home with us.” 

“He has been in Hampshire staying with his 
relations,” said Mrs. Grayle; “but I hope they 
will spare him to us for a little now. Such a 
devoted son,” she continued. She was always 
anxious to parade the pair before the eyes of 
what she fondly hoped was an admiring county. 

Coffee was just being served and Myrtle, to 
Mrs. Grayle’s immense disapproval, had lit a 
cigarette, when Ethel gave a little self-con- 
scious giggle and said : 

“Why, there is Fred! How punctual his 
train must have been ! I did not think he would 
be here before a quarter to three, and it is 
barely half-past two!” 

“Ah, he came on wings, no doubt!” said 
Uncle Vin, beaming. 

Some minutes later the young man in ques- 
tion was announced. He resisted Mr. Trav- 
ers’ almost prayerful entreaties that he would 


160 


ONLY ANNE 


have some luncheon, declaring that he had had 
some on the train. Then, as his eye fell upon 
Anne, he smiled, recognizing her, and held out 
his hand. 

Presently he looked up from the coffee and 
cigarette which he had accepted, and these aw- 
ful and paralyzing words fell from his lips : 

“How is Egerton, Miss Travers? I met him 
a few weeks ago at my club and was introduced 
to him. I recognized him at once as your com- 
panion of Riff el Alp fame!” 

From the Grayles he had obviously nothing 
to learn of indiscreet utterances, nor of the 
graceful art of putting one’s foot in it. 

Stunned into silence by this fresh and unex- 
pected blow, Anne could find no words with 
which to answer him, and Fred Westbrook 
proceeded with the easy self-importance which 
became so admirably the future son-in-law of 
Mrs. Grayle. 

“I suppose you have heard nothing of him 
since he went to the Back-of-Beyond? I saw 
him a few days before he started. Nice sort of 
place, too, it sounds; but he says he is pretty 
well inured to all climates, as well as to every 
kind of plague and fever mosquito!” 

Anne glanced involuntarily at Myrtle. Her 
face was quite unmoved; perhaps it looked a 


ONLY ANNE 


161 


little set and harder than usual; it seemed as 
if the name of Anne’s companion, when she had 
learned it, had proved no surprise. 

“Oh, you never told us that, Fred,” said 
Ethel; “and we all thought at the time, if you 
remember, that he was a Russian anarchist !” 

“Egerton?” said Mrs. Grayle, her pale and 
prominent eyes bulging. "'What Egerton? I 
have known some delightful Egertons!” 

“Oh, well,, there is only one Egerton,” said 
Fred Westbrook complacently; “at least, when 
it comes to exploring. His name is Sir An- 
thony Egerton, the African traveler.” 

A faint flush that suggested anger passed 
over Myrtle’s face and then left it whiter than 
a lily. Both the Grayle girls giggled. 

"The Egerton?” said Mrs. Grayle, who had 
never heard of him in her life. “I wonder why 
it should be necessary for him to travel incog? 
Is he so afraid of being interviewed, Anne?” 

“He came to Zermatt on very private busi- 
ness ; he did not wish any one to know that he 
was there,” said Anne, with a sudden courage. 

“You must have felt immensely flattered to 
be in his confidence, then, Anne,” said Vera 
maliciously; “no wonder you stayed out in the 
woods so long in the moonlight!” 

“I am sure he must be a very interesting, 


162 


ONLY ANNE 


agreeable man to meet,” said Mrs. Grayle. ‘‘I 
wish you had introduced him to me, Anne. I 
should have persuaded him to come down to 
Elsham Park when he is next in England! 
And to think I could ever have imagined Him 
to be an anarchist — even in fun — for, of course, 
that was only a little joke! Still, people who 
are wilfully mysterious always lay themselves 
open to misunderstanding. It is so much 
easier and better to be quite frank and above 
board ! But you, neither of you, had any time 
to bestow upon other people, had you, Anne?” 

Myrtle now looked thoroughly bored by the 
conversation. She had assumed a look of abso- 
lute indifference, almost as if she were not lis- 
tening to Mrs. Grayle’s clumsy and rather 
fierce persiflage. To Anne, as she furtively 
glanced at her, it seemed as if some cold 
wind had passed over her, chilling her to the 
bone. 

“Vera, you must be perfectly desolated at 
not having secured such a distinguished auto- 
graph for your book,” continued Mrs. Grayle, 
who could never leave a subject alone when she 
had once embarked upon it. “And you really 
came upon him quite by chance, Anne? I feel, 
however, quite persuaded — do you not, also, 
Mr. Travers? — that he must have known of 


ONLY ANNE 


163 


dear Anne’s whereabouts. He seemed to be 
talking to you in such a very intimate manner ! 
I strongly suspect that his urgent private busi- 
ness at Zermatt was not unconnected with 
yourself. Later on, I am convinced that we 
shall hear news of a most important nature! 
We must not, however, anticipate events, must 
we, Anne?” 

As they arose and went into the drawing- 
room even Fred Westbrook had tardily ac- 
quired a dim notion that he had really said 
something very indiscreet, although he still felt 
quite innocent and well-intentioned. He 
looked a little annoyed that Mrs. Grayle 
should thus enhance his own indiscretion by 
her renewed sallies of pleasantry at Anne’s ex- 
pense. He could not be blind to the girl’s so 
evident agitation and embarrassment, and he 
wondered why Mrs. Grayle should take such 
pleasure in continuing to torment her. Anne, 
indeed, looked quite wretched and helpless, not 
only on account of Mrs. Grayle’s speech, but 
at the contemptuous and disdainful look which 
Myrtle had bestowed upon her as they left the 
dining-room. 

Every one was thankful when Mr. Travers 
proposed a walk round the garden, and the 
fierce, almost suffocating heat deterred no one 


164 


ONLY ANNE 


from taking advantage of the means of escape 
thus offered. He hiihself escorted Myrtle, 
who took absolutely no notice of Anne. Fred 
and Ethel immediately got lost, after the usual 
custom of the engaged. Vera carried off Con- 
rad in triumph, while the unfortunate Anne 
found herself reduced to a tete-a-tete with Mrs. 
Grayle. 

Finding herself thus relegated remorselessly 
to the companionship of Mrs. Grayle, she 
longed to plead fatigue or illness and remain 
indoors, but she had not the courage to do so. 
She succumbed without protest to the machina- 
tions of an evil destiny. 

“Is it really true that you and Lady Chard 
are living together at Middlecombe?” was her 
first question, as they walked down the long 
beech avenue. 

“I have taken a cottage there for a few 
weeks, and Myrtle is staying with me while her 
husband is abroad,” replied Anne. 

“I hope he approves of the arrangement?” 
said Mrs. Grayle. 

“Myrtle did not tell me. But she is worn 
out; she needs a rest. The doctors would not 
let her go abroad with him,” said Anne. 

“She certainly looks the picture of health!” 
said Mrs. Grayle with undisguised incredulity ; 


ONLY ANNE 


165 


‘‘especially considering the very artificial life 
she leads, which is, of course, most unhealthy 
for any woman. In her place, I should not 
have consulted a doctor! A wife’s duty is be- 
side her husband — in sickness as well as in 
health! People seem in these days to lose all 
sense of their most important responsibilities. 
They are deaf to the call of duty !” 

Anne wished she could have endorsed with 
fervor this sweeping statement. Most heartily 
did she now wish that Myrtle, in a fit of con- 
nubial devotion, had journeyed to Marienbad 
with Lord Chard. 

“What sort of a place is your cottage?” 
asked Mrs. Grayle. 

“It — it is a very pretty one. It belongs to 
an artist,” said Anne unimaginatively. 

“I hope it is sanitary?” pursued Mrs. 
Grayle. “Did you have the drains thoroughly 
overhauled? You are such a novice at house- 
keeping — I don’t suppose you ever thought of 
such a thing!” 

Anne feebly confessed that this had, indeed, 
been the case. 

“And what was the attraction of Middle- 
combe?” continued Mrs. Grayle. “Did you 
know any one there?” 

“Oh, no — that is partly why I chose it,” said 


166 


ONLY ANNE 


Anne. ‘‘I am getting tired of people. One 
sees so much of them in London.’' 

“You came here to-day in a motor, did you 
not? Myrtle’s, I suppose ?” 

“Yes, Myrtle’s,” Anne acquiesced, and be- 
gan to think her brain was going to be para- 
lyzed by these ceaseless questions. 

“A limousine, I think she said?” 

“Yes — a limousine.” 

“How long did you take?” 

“Just about two hours.” 

“You must have been perfectly smothered in 
dust on such a day!” 

“I — I do not think I noticed.” 

They were close now to the big gray build- 
ing of the monastery. From the church could 
be heard the monotonous chanting of Vespers. 
The slow, burring voices, the smooth, old- 
world harmonies, sounded peacefully, like the 
buzzing of innumerable bees, as they mingled 
with the summer sounds from the quiet woods 
and green fields. 

Mrs. Grayle’s voice struck sharply across 
her thoughts. 

“Your father was dreadfully misguided to 
build this place; he must often have regretted 
it, I am quite sure. A lot of idle men with 
nothing to do but sing in church.” 


ONLY ANNE 


167 


Anne was at a loss to think of a fairly pa- 
cific reply to this onslaught, and they walked 
up to the church in silence. 

“I am not going in,” said Mrs. Grayle; 
“but pray do not let me prevent you. I have 
never been inside it in my life, and I do not 
intend to break my rule!” 

“I should like to go for a moment,” said 
Anne ; “and the monks are not really idle, Mrs. 
Grayle. They rise very early, and every min- 
ute of the day is occupied.” 

She opened the door, dipped her finger into 
the holy-water stoup, and made the sign of the 
cross. Mrs. Grayle watched her from the 
porch with an expression of contemptuous dis- 
approval. 

When Anne entered she saw that Myrtle 
was already there, kneeling before a very beau- 
tiful Italian statue of the Blessed Virgin; her 
head was bowed and her face was hidden in her 
hands. 

In all her gay and careless life, through all 
the years that had been so miserable and so 
unhappy, she had always had this help; she 
had never been negligent in the practice of her 
religion. 

Anne knelt quite at the back of the church. 
She did not wish to attract Myrtle’s attention. 


168 


ONLY ANNE 


Already she was beginning to dread the long 
drive back to Middlecbmbe in her company. 
She was afraid of her now — afraid of what 
Myrtle might say to her. 

She soon rejoined Mrs. Grayle, whose large 
form threw a squat shadow on the golden path 
outside. Beyond them the summer woods lay 
slumbering peacefully, beautiful in rich tones 
of green and blue, except here and there where 
they were touched to vivid broken light by the 
sunshine that lay upon them in brilliant 
patches. Above was a serene blue sky, across 
which the black, cawing throngs of homing 
rooks made sombre blots. Something of 
Anne’s old childish nostalgia for the place that 
had once been her home invaded her heart. N o 
other spot could ever be quite the same to her ; 
and yet she felt herself now to be an utter 
stranger within its gates. 

Perhaps Mrs. Grayle read something of 
this in her face, for she said : 

“It always seems to me a thousand pities that 
you did not buy a dispensation and marry Vin- 
cent; the place is as much yours as his. It 
would have been a really admirable arrange- 
ment, and from his father’s account, the poor 
boy is still quite broken-hearted. You need a 
home and a husband, Anne, more than any one 


ONLY ANNE 


169 


I know. Your present mode of life is entirely 
unfitting you for both!” 

Anne knew that this unfortunate episode 
had been revealed to her by Uncle Vin almost 
immediately after it had happened. Vincent 
had been extremely angry at this indiscretion, 
and had gone abroad soon afterward, and Mrs. 
Grayle, who had looked confidently Elsham- 
wards for a husband for Vera, had been not a 
little mortified. She was not aware that the 
knowledge that such a practised shikari was 
on his tracks had expedited the departure of 
Vincent. He had once told Anne in a moment 
of confidence that he was positively afraid of 
the trio and their long legs. 

“Does Lady Chard practise her religion?” 
inquired Mrs. Grayle, as she walked back to- 
ward the Abbey with Anne. 

“Yes,” said Anne meekly. 

“Lord Chard does not object?” 

“I don’t think he cares one way or the other. 
He — ^he was baptized a Cathohc — it is only of 
late years that he has given up his religion.” 

“I am afraid that they do not care in the 
least what the other does or thinks! A very 
sad state of affairs. I wish with all my heart, 
Anne, that you were not so intimate with these 
people.” 


170 


ONLY ANNE 


Anne flushed with anger. 

“Myrtle is my greatest friend,” she said 
coldly, “and I do not wish to criticize her.” 

“My dear, I hope you may never be disil- 
lusioned ; that is all that I can say. I hope soon 
to hear that you are going to become Lady 
Egerton, and then we shall certainly hear the 
end of this friendship, for I feel sure that no 
really nice man would care for his wife to be 
verj^ intimate with Lady Chard.” 

But at this Anne was compelled to repress a 
smile. She remembered how angry Anthony 
had been with her for leaving Myrtle when she 
was so anxious and unhappy about her hus- 
band. 


CHAPTER XII 


Myrtle and Anne left Elsham directly after 
tea. They had gone for some considerable dis- 
tance in the car, and had left the village a long 
way behind, before Myrtle broke the silence ex- 
cept to give some necessary instructions to the 
chauffeur. She took no notice whatever of her 
companion. Anne began to wonder if Myrtle 
would ever speak to her again. She could see 
that she was extremely annoyed. 

It was not until they had passed Challerton, 
when the silence was beginning to get com- 
pletely upon poor Anne’s nerves, that Myrtle 
said suddenly: 

“What a pity — is it not? — that you did not 
tell your uncle not to ask that horrible woman 
to meet us ? You must have wished it yourself, 
considering the way she gave you away!” 

Anne was silent; the tears came into her 
eyes, and there was a lump in her throat that 
hurt her. Some explanations she would cer- 
tainly have to give, but she hoped to delay it a 
little longer. 

While Myrtle was in this angry, bitter mood 
it was difficult to say anything to her. 

171 


172 


ONLY ANNE 


Anne was afraid for her then; afraid that 
she must be thinking that Anthony had failed 
at last in his long and selfless devotion to her, 
so that soon she would begin to examine her 
own heart and find therein an unbidden guest 
— the love that had awakened too late, the love 
that now could only be a sin and not — as once 
— a beautiful and desirable thing. 

Even Anne scarcely realized how completely 
— apart from every consideration of love — 
Myrtle had come to rely upon Anthony’s un- 
failing sympathy, his strong protective friend- 
ship, even though she saw him so seldom and 
refused for both their sakes to see him more 
often. She never knew — because he had never 
told her — whether his old love for her was dead 
or not. But she had an intuitive Imowledge 
that in some undefined way he did care for 
her. 

“So it really was Tony — this mysterious man 
at Zermatt? It did not need that dreadful 
Westbrook to tell me. I guessed directly they 
said he did his hair in a foreign way! Why 
did you not tell me, Anne? Why did you keep 
it such a profound secret? You surely did not 
wish to insult me by thinking I should care in 
the least where or with whom he spends his 
time? You did not think I should mind your 


ONLY ANNE 


173 


meeting him there, or anywhere else in the 
world? Seriously speaking, you were not try- 
ing to avoid hurting my feelings?” 

“My reasons for keeping silence, whatever 
they were, were perfectly loyal to you, 
Myrtle.” 

“Then why on earth did you not tell me you 
had gone to Zermatt to meet Tony?” 

“Because it would not have been true. I 
did not go there to meet him — I had no wish 
to see him!” 

“Then why did you keep it so dark?” 

“Because — I preferred not to mention it.” 

“Did he go there to see you?” inquired Myr- 
tle, with a toueh of cold insolence. 

“Yes — in a sense, I believe he did.” 

“You spoke of private business? But per- 
haps that was only a blind?” 

“His business in Zermatt was private,” said 
Anne quietly. 

“Why, you hardly know him ! Y ou met each 
other at my house for the first time in the 
spring! Unless you have been engaged in a 
surreptitious intimacy?” 

Her tone was contemptuous and bitter al- 
most beyond recognition. Every word she ut- 
tered injured her own pride. She was ashamed 
that Anne should know she was angry, or that 


174 


ONLY ANNE 


the girl should imagine it signified in the least 
to her where Anthony spent his time. 

“I was much nearer the mark than I sup- 
posed when I suggested to you the other day 
that you had eloped with him, since you both 
left London so suddenly!” 

All the light had gone out of her beautiful 
eyes, and her face was pale as the blossoms 
whose name she bore. 

“I tried to keep you from the knowledge; it 
was a mistake as things have turned out,” said 
Anne. “I could not tell you why Sir Anthony 
came to Zermatt and so I thought it was better 
not to mention the fact that he was there. I 
had never told him that I was going away, nor 
where I was going to. I was very sorry that he 
came at all. I am still more sorry now!” 
There were tears in her eyes. 

“You looked more than guilty when Mrs. 
Grayle mentioned it,” said Myrtle with irony; 
“and it is very easy for me to hazard a guess as 
to his reason. A man does not follow a woman 
like that abroad without a very special reason. 
You have got him very well in hand — I 
congratulate you — ^he is not at all easy to 
hold!” 

“I know nothing of his character — or 
whether he is easy to hold or not. I do not 


ONLY ANNE 


175 

want to hold him!” said Anne with some show 
of indignation. 

“My dear Nancy,” said Myrtle, “you know 
I am not at all a slave to the conventions my- 
self, but really your conduct has been a little 
odd, has it not? Even less gossiping people 
than Mrs. Grayle might think it rather extra- 
ordinary. You race off to Zermatt, quite sud- 
denly and unpremeditatedly, so you say, with- 
out telling a soul where you are going, or even 
.that you are going at all. Tony joins you 
there, or rather at the Riffel Alp, where you 
have gone presumably to avoid the omniscient 
eye of Mother Grayle, but where, unfortu- 
nately for you, she follows you. And you ask 
me to believe that it is all quite an accident that 
you should have met Tony thus! I suppose 
you will also tell me that it was quite by acci- 
dent you dined together and spent a consider- 
able time in the pine-woods afterwards — still 
apparently quite unchaperoned! I am not a 
prude and I like to know that people are happy 
and enjoying themselves, but it seems to me 
that this really is almost beyond what is per- 
mitted to a girl living alone as you do. If I 
had done such a thing — quite by accident even 
— what do you think Pat would have said, or 
you^ or any one else in the world? Perhaps 


176 


ONLY ANNE 


you think you may not only look over the wall, 
but steal the horse. But I advise you not to 
try people’s charitableness too far!” 

“Oh, but it wasn’t half as bad as that!” cried 
Amie. Reviewed in such a cold and hostile 
light, her innocent action seemed to look both 
indiscreet and ambiguous. Myrtle was right. 
What would people say of her and Anthony? 
It had been all his fault for putting her into 
such a position, yet she could not tell Myrtle 
this — unless she took her courage in both hands 
and told her the whole truth from beginning 
to end. At that moment she positively longed 
to reveal to her the fact that Anthony had 
asked her to marry him. Yet she still was not 
sure that it would not be a cruel thing to do. 
No; she could not hurt Myrtle. She loved her 
too well. 

Yes — ^it was true. No one would now be- 
lieve that she had not gone to Zermatt pur- 
posely to meet Anthony. When she came to 
examine it closely, she saw that Myrtle had 
said no more than the truth. 

“Of course, if you really hope to marry him, 
that is another thing,” continued Myrtle, “but 
let me tell you that Tony is one of the most 
conventional of men. He knows too much 
about the habits of savage tribes not to appre- 


ONLY ANNE 


177 


ciate the dictates and customs of a higher civi- 
lization. He is extremely particular about 
women. I know exactly what he thinks of the 
rather abandoned way in which they so often 
behave. And I happen to know he had rather 
a good opinion of you, Anne ; he said once you 
were refreshingly simple and quiet.” 

Every word fell from her lips with cutting 
force. Anne felt that it was Myrtle’s intention 
deliberately to wound her, as a child that has 
been hurt desires at once to retaliate upon 
something else. 

‘'If you want to marry him, you have not 
made, from all accounts, a very promising 
start !” 

Anne had already endured so much from 
Mrs. Grayle and Fred Westbrook and, indeed, 
from all the .ill-fated happenings of Uncle 
Vin’s terrible luncheon party, that she began to 
feel as if she could not bear much more. Soon 
her self-control would give way, and Myrtle 
would certainly hear the whole truth. To ex- 
onerate herself from blame and suspicion she 
would have to tell Myrtle that Anthony had, 
indeed, wished to marry her; that he had come 
to Zermatt simply and solely for the purpose 
of acquainting her with this fact; that he had 
sought her out of his own free will, and that 


178 


ONLY ANNE 


her one object in going there had been to es- 
cape from him and avoid this climax which she 
had guessed was impending. But the words 
died on her bps. It was impossible to know 
how far Myrtle cared for Anthony. She had 
refused to marry him long ago when she was 
free. She had chosen, instead, to make an am- 
bitious and loveless marriage. It might be that 
her only feeling for him now was one of friend- 
ship. It might be that all his comings and go- 
ings were matters of the most profound indif- 
ference to her. On this point she, who was 
generally so frank, especially with Anne, who 
was her most intimate friend, had kept an un- 
broken silence. Far back in Anne’s mind 
there seemed to echo the words of that song 
which Anthony had sung to them that evening 
in London : 


“I shall forget her eyes how cold they were. 
Forget her voice, how soft it was and low. 
With all my singing that she would not hear. 
And all my service that she did not know.” 


It was a point at which, indeed, the trodden 
worm might most legitimately have turned, for 
Myrtle’s utterances had been full of studied 
insult, and the only alternative to telling her 


ONLY ANNE 179 

the whole truth was to keep this silence which 
was so open to misinterpretation. 

“But perhaps you are going to marry him, 
Nancy?” continued Myrtle in a gentler tone; 
“perhaps you are already engaged to him? If 
so, you must try and forget what I have just 
said to you. But surely, in this case, you would 
have told me ? You are my two oldest friends ; 
you met at my house. I should be glad to think 
you cared for each other!” 

“I am not going to marry him. We are not 
engaged. If we had been, I think you are the 
first person I should have told.” 

“But you intend to be? You care for each 
other? I never thought of it before, but he 
often went to see you in town, didn’t he? And 
some day, when he is tired of wandering about, 
he will settle down and he will want a wife. I 
daresay you would suit him very well, Anne, 
with your quiet ways ; you are not nervous and 
exacting like so many women. I daresay you 
would make him quite happy, even if you only 
married each other for the sake of companion- 
ship.” 

“Do not think of such a thing, Myrtle; it is 
the last thing that will ever happen. I do not 
in the least wish to marry him.” 

“You are determined to tell me nothing,” 


180 


ONLY ANNE 


said Myrtle; “and Anthony never even men- 
tioned this wonderful Oieeting to me, though I 
saw him before he started. But do you realize 
you almost lied to me, Anne ? I can hardly be- 
lieve that you could be capable of such du- 
plicity!” 

She was evidently determined to regard 
Anne as a false and deceitful friend, bent on 
hiding something important from her. Her 
secrecy about the whole thing increased Myr- 
tle’s suspicions. 

“I always wondered why you had both 
chosen that particular time to desert me,” she 
said. “I think I mentioned that to you the 
other day. What a good actress you are, 
Nancy! You gave me no idea of the real 
truth; that you were spending the time to- 
gether at the Riffel Alp. I wonder you did 
not choose something a little more free from 
tourists than Switzerland!” 

Anne could not tell her of all the motives 
that had prompted her to send Anthony away, 
and had urged her to conceal the fact that he 
had asked her to be his wife. 

She knew that as long as, humanly speaking, 
it was possible to do so. Myrtle would forbear 
to examine her own heart and see how far she 
kept therein a place for Anthony Egerton. 


ONLY ANNE 


181 


She was a proud woman ; she would look upon 
such a love as a shameful thing, to be plucked 
out by the roots. If she once realized it, she 
would probably refuse to see him again. And 
already Anne could see that there was some 
jealousy in Myrtle’s attitude toward her. Per- 
haps she had begun to feel that Anthony’s love, 
which had endured so long, his sympathy and 
unspoken devotion, were beginning to fail her; 
that Anne was trying to take her place with 
him. For the first time, in spite of all her pre- 
cautions, Anne knew that she had begun to 
put Myrtle in possession of a singularly un- 
welcome truth. She had sown the first seeds 
of distrust and jealousy in Myrtle Chard’s 
heart. 

How could she explain that, though 
Anthony had, indeed, asked her to marry him, 
she was convinced that he had never cared for 
her — that Myrtle was the one love of his life? 
It was all so clear to her own eyes — but how 
could she make Myrtle see it in the same light? 

Was she going to lose her, too? The thought 
was exceedingly bitter. She had sent Anthony 
away, although she loved him, for Myrtle’s 
sake, and it had been of no avail. Why had she 
not at least clutched the profound and passion- 
ate happiness that had been offered to her? 


182 


ONLY ANNE 


Why had she not accepted that love which she 
so desired and which had been laid at her feet? 

Through the rushing rhythmic of the car’s 
progress she seemed to hear Anthony’s voice 
vibrating across the great silences into which 
he had vanished ; his voice, tremulous with love 
and emotion, as it had been that night when, 
surrounded by the dark pine-woods and the 
gleaming snows, he had assured her of his love. 

Anne turned her face away. She could not 
bear to meet Myrtle’s cold, inquiring, contemp- 
tuous gaze. They did not speak again until 
they reached Middlecombe. The summer day 
seemed to have lost all its beauty, and at sun- 
set a little chill wind sprang up and moaned 
across the hills. A few spots of rain fell, and 
there were heavy clouds that seemed to presage 
a violent thunderstorm. Myrtle shivered as 
she alighted from the car, and, pausing for a 
moment, she told the chauffeur to come round 
with it at eight o’clock on the following morn- 
ing. 

“Mrs. Grayle was quite right,” she said. “I 
ought never to have left Pat. I am sorry I de- 
scended upon you, Nancy; you could not have 
wanted me at all. I must have been quite the 
last person you wished to see. But you ought 
to have said so. I had come to take our friend- 


ONLY ANNE 


183 


ship too much for granted, I am afraid. That 
is never a very safe thing to do!” 

Yesterday her whole soul would have been 
in revolt at the prospect of returning to her 
husband, to the dreary routine of the sick- 
room; now she welcomed eagerly this excuse 
for departing. 

Anne scarcely saw her again. She pleaded a 
headache and dined in her own room, and they 
did not meet till the following morning. 

As she stood in the hall ready to leave she 
made one brief and bitter little speech: 

‘T could never begin to grow jny hard skin 
here!” 

Outside the motor was giving spasmodic 
throbs, as if it were impatient to start. Myr- 
tle’s luggage was already piled upon it; her 
maid stood near waiting, carrying a bag and 
some wraps. 

Myrtle wore a long white dust-coat, in which 
she looked very tall and slender. Her little 
white hood was fastened on with yards of filmy 
chiffon. She looked pale but very lovely. 
Anne’s heart ached. She felt as if their friend- 
ship had quite suddenly been killed. The tears 
stood in her eyes. “Oh, Myrtle, I am sorry you 
are going.” 

“I am not sorry at all,” said Myrtle calmly; 


184 


ONLY ANNE 


‘‘these quiet places very soon get on my nerves. 
But you will find this a far better hiding place 
than the Riff el Alp !” 

She did not kiss Anne, but held out a limp 
hand. 

Something was, indeed, radically wrong and 
out of joint, since Anne could thus behold the 
departure of Myrtle with a sense of actual re- 
lief, almost of thankfulness. She had not un- 
derstood ; that was the bitterest thought of all. 
She had blamed Anne. She had purposely 
tried to put a bad construction upon her inno- 
cent action. She had refused to believe her 
explanation. It was because life had 
hurt her so much that she felt compelled to 
wound even those whom she loved, and who 
loved her. 

Anne almost felt as if she never desired to 
see again those two people who were so dear to 
her and from whom, by her own will and by the 
machinations of fate, respectively, she was now 
so utterly divided. 

So far she had played her hand with a clum- 
siness that seemed to merit the disaster that 
had supervened. She blamed herself for all 
that had happened. Myrtle suspected her of 
being deceitful and untruthful. And she had 
sent Anthony away. They were both angry 


ONLY ANNE 185 

and offended with her. And she was left to 
her “desolate freedom.’’ 

Myrtle’s little bedroom looked sadly forlorn 
and empty. On the mantelpiece stood a tall 
blue vase into which Myrtle had carelessly 
thrust some golden and crimson roses which 
she had brought back from Elsham the day be- 
fore, gifts gallantly offered by Uncle Vin. 
They were drooping a little now, but they were 
still sweet and fragrant. The view from the 
window across the wide green spaces of Mid- 
dlecombe Park was very charming in the early 
morning. The cattle made brown and black 
blots on the sweep of green. The huge elms 
and splendid oaks flung long blue shadows. 
Beyond, the misty blue hills showed vaguely 
against the sky. The long white road down 
which Myrtle’s car had so swiftly vanished ran 
sharply eastward, and then was lost to sight 
in a dip of the valley. Myrtle seemed to have 
left her in one swift and blinding flash, like a 
fairy in a fairy coach. She had gone as sud- 
denly as she had come. Anne wondered sadly 
if she should ever see her again. It would be 
dull and purposeless here without her, and now 
there would be no need to keep the little room 
always ready. Myrtle would never come back 
again to occupy it. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Shortly after Myrtle’s departure the owner 
of Anne’s cottage died from the effects of the 
operation she had been compelled to undergo. 
In her will she desired that the little property 
might be sold and the proceeds divided among 
her three nieces. 

It was put up for sale, and Anne resolved 
to purchase it, together with the few acres of 
land that had always belonged to it, including 
a field or two, and an outlying farm which was 
let to excellent tenants. 

It was a refuge to which she felt she could 
always flee when things went awry, and when 
she required rest and quiet. She felt glad to 
possess it. Her few weeks of residence had 
made her genuinely attached to the little place, 
and it was pleasant to feel that it was her own. 

The ideal abode remains to most people a 
thing of dreams, remote and unattainable. But 
Anne, sick of a world that had of late shown 
her only a hostile countenance, felt that at 
Middlecombe she could at least find tranquil- 
lity and a peace that should be undisturbed by 
fierce happenings. Like the worthy Bishop 
186 


ONLY ANNE 


187 


Blougram, she asked little more than that her 
“hutch should rustle with sufficient straw.” 
Here, with books and work, she could, perhaps, 
find enough to occupy her, and she felt disin- 
clined to return to London even when the au- 
tumn days set in with a spell of bad and stormy 
weather. 

There were few neighbors, which enhanced 
the desirability of the place from Anne’s pres- 
ent rather misanthropic point of view. At 
first she made no acquaintances except the 
priest and the French nuns. She had little 
curiosity to meet the Brettinghams, who did 
not return from Scotland that year until quite 
the middle of October. 

Moreover, the place fulfilled the immortal 
dictum of Stevenson that two things were es- 
sential in a neighborhood where we propose to 
spend a lifetime — a desert and some living 
water. The deep little wood of beech-trees 
with its wild undergrowth constituted Anne’s 
desert; the swift little stream that glided at 
the bottom of her nearest field was the “living 
water.” There were flowers in abundance all 
the year round, so the villagers told her, the 
furtive waxen wild snowdrops that came even 
before the snow had melted on the brown win- 
ter hills, to be followed by the shining golden 


188 


ONLY ANNE 


trumpets of the daffodils, the paler glory of the 
April primroses, the sapphire carpets of blue- 
bells, the crimson-clad army of fox-gloves with 
delicate, erect spires and drooping, honey-laden 
bells. Great saffron fronds of dying bracken 
caught the autumn sunlight as well as the brave 
scarlet of briar and berry. There was, too, a 
space for the gorse to blossom in at all seasons. 
Like Horace, who numbered among his wishes 
“a portion of ground not overlarge in which 
was a garden and a fountain with a continual 
stream close to my house and a little woodland 
besides,” Anne possessed those desirable 
things, and, like him, she prayed but for a con- 
tinuation of these simple benefits. 

She learned something of the family at Mid- 
dlecombe Park. Sir Joshua was a retired 
stockbroker, who had made a very large for- 
tune, which he was now compelled to retire and 
enjoy, a process which he disliked extremely. 
Though he and his family had lived there for 
ten years, they were still regarded by the con- 
servative villagers as ‘‘the new people oop at 
the Paark,” which oflFended them grievously. 
They entertained a great deal, had shooting 
parties in the autumn and winter, and week- 
end parties throughout the early summer. On 
such Sundays the unaccustomed natives had an 


ONLY ANNE 


189 


opportunity of beholding the latest and most 
conspicuous London fashions exhibited on the 
persons of Lady Brettingham’s guests in the 
two front pews. In August they vanished for 
two or three months to Scotland, where it was 
understood they continued to dispense lavish 
hospitality. 

The house was a very substantial Eliza- 
bethan structure, much modernized by its pres- 
ent owner. The view from the south windows 
was very beautiful, across the wide and beauti- 
ful range of the Mendips ; the house stood high, 
the park was level and well wooded, and be- 
yond it that unbroken range of graceful hills 
stretched away green and gold and blue into 
infinite distance. 

Sir Joshua had not long since received the 
honor of knighthood, which he did not appre- 
ciate at all, but it nevertheless afforded the 
liveliest satisfaction to his wife. They had two 
sons, who were said to be extremely handsome ; 
the elder son, Eric, had a mania for traveling 
and had been abroad for some time, and the 
younger one was in the army. There was also 
a daughter of sixteen, who was said to be a 
pretty and engaging person. 

It had been one of the chief feats of Lady 
Brettingham’s life to wean her husband from 


190 


ONLY ANNE 


his city office. There at least he had been mas- 
ter, and he clung to the daily grind of work 
and to that rush to town at an unnecessary 
hour of the morning from the joyless suburb 
where his great, hideous, stucco mansion was 
the largest, ugliest, and most imposing of all. 
It had been a great struggle to induce him to 
retire from any further active part in the busi- 
ness than that entailed by the directorship of 
certain companies in which he held considerable 
interest. For some years he had been obdurate 
on the subject. But the boys were growing 
up, and how could they have a great future, she 
urged, if compelled to pass their lives in that 
soul-destroying suburb? In the end she con- 
quered, and by the time their sons were of an 
age to go to Oxford and Sandhurst respec- 
tively, Sir Joshua was persuaded by his wife to 
purchase Middlecombe Park, a fine estate 
which had recently come into the market 
through the appalling extravagance of its 
yoimg owner, to whose family it had belonged 
for several centuries. 

The shooting was good, and although Sir 
Joshua had never shot anything in his life and 
would not have attempted to do so now, his 
sons brought their college friends home and 


ONLY ANNE 


191 


enjoyed the sport, in which he took no part. 
He led a very retiring life, going to town per- 
haps twice a week (he looked upon these occa- 
sions as holidays) and finding, while at home, 
his principal consolation in a telephone with 
which he could communicate daily to the world 
of finance, where alone he was supremely 
happy and from which he had been so dras- 
tically parted. A ticker set up in his study also 
contributed to mitigate his loneliness. He had 
no taste for farming, did not care for the gar- 
den, disliked the country, for which he had even 
some contempt, and took his daily exercise in 
a very swift and large Panhard. 

But he was very nervous about his health, 
and it was chiefly on this ground that he had 
finally yielded to his wife’s entreaties to re- 
nounce the work which was so dear to him. 
His happiest time was the two months spent in 
London during the season. Seldom a day 
passed then when he did not return like a 
ghost to his old haunts in the environment of 
Threadneedle Street. 

Soon after their return to Middlecombe in 
October Anne received a visit from Lady Bret- 
tingham. 

She was a handsome woman between fifty 


192 


ONLY ANNE 


and sixty, with a florid complexion and fine 
blue eyes, and thick, slight ly-faded blonde hair, 
which was always beautifully dressed. 

Anne was unaware that the fact of Lady 
Chard’s visit to the cottage had constituted her 
own most substantial claim to recognition by 
these opulent neighbors. But, on the whole, 
she felt that she should like Lady Brettingham 
as long as she did not invade her solitude too 
often, nor make too many demands upon her 
time. She was friendly and extremely kind- 
hearted, and she took an immediate fancy to 
Anne, as older women so often did. She felt 
a little sorry for this pretty, dark-eyed girl, 
who was obviously so entirely alone in the 
world. She had been surprised to find her so 
young and charming. Girls of that age did 
not often choose to hide themselves in a cot- 
tage in the very fastnesses of the country. 
There might even be danger. Vivian was very 
susceptible ; of Eric — the darling of her heart 
— she had little fear; she did not think he had 
ever looked twice at a girl in his life. 

She had quite made up her mind that her 
two sons were to make brilliant marriages. It 
would be unnecessary for their wives ^o pos- 
sess money, since they would both be so emi- 
nently well endowed with this world’s goods. 


ONLY ANNE 


193 


“I hope you have not thought me very un- 
neighborly for not coming before,” she said as 
Anne rose to greet her, “but, as you perhaps 
know, we have been away in Scotland, and 
since we came back I have been so busy getting 
my second boy off to Egypt.” 

“Oh, but it is very kind of you to come at 
all,” said Anne, smiling. 

“Do you like Middlecombe?” was the next 
question. “I expect you must have found it a 
little dull all the summer. Every one vanishes 
then, so it is not a good time to come. But 
now I hope we shall see a great deal of you. 
My husband told me that you had bought the 
place. I was dreadfully grieved to hear of 
poor Miss Shepton’s death; we were so fond 
of her. She was a dear creature and made the 
place quite charming.” Her frank blue eyes 
surveyed Anne’s little drawing-room with evi- 
dent admiration. 

“Yes; I was sorry the furniture was not for 
sale, too,” said Anne, “but I found some very 
like it in Bath, so I do not think the room looks 
much changed.” 

“Oh, but you have made it charming,” said 
Lady Brettingham; “and your flowers are 
loveiy.” 

“I think flowers are a necessity of existence,” 


194 


ONLY ANNE 


said Anne; “the garden was a continual pleas- 
ure to me all the the summer.” 

“We shall have constant parties for shooting 
now between this and Christmas,” continued 
Lady Brettingham; “you must come and dine 
with us sometimes. I will send the motor for 
you ; it is too far to walk, and Middlecombe is 
terrible — you can hire nothing. Do you play 
golf and bridge?” 

“I don’t play golf at all,” said Anne, with a 
smile, “and I’m not a very good bridge player, 
I am afraid. You see, I have so little practice 
now I am living alone like this.” 

But she longed to tell her visitor that, far 
from being dull, she only desired seclusion and 
obscurity. She felt, however, that this attitude 
would be entirely incomprehensible to Lady 
Brettingham. 

“Ah, we must alter all that!” she said 
kindly; “you must not be allowed to be alone 
any more. It can not be at all good for a girl 
so young as you.” 

She wondered what force or combination of 
circumstances had driven Anne into the wil- 
derness. She did not wear mourning, so it 
could not be the result of a recent bereavement. 

But she was evidently so determined to be 
friendly that it was quite impossible for Anne 


ONLY ANNE 


195 


not to receive her overtures in anything but the 
same spirit in which they were offei'ed. She 
talked a great deal, and the girl listened sym- 
pathetically. She had, however, let her 
thoughts wander ever so slightly when a famil- 
iar name caught her ear. 

“My elder son Eric cares for nothing but ex- 
ploring,” she said. “I live in terror lest he 
should join a Polar expedition! He has al- 
ready been twice for long periods to Central 
Africa and he started again only in August 
with a man called Egerton and Major Gra- 
ham. I am sure you must know Sir Anthony 
Egerton, at least by name? Eric wrote to us 
quite lately, and said he had been so ill with 
fever that Sir Anthony will probably not let 
him accompany them any further. He will be 
broken-hearted, for he was simply set on going. 
But I am delighted, for now I hope he will 
soon be coming home again!” 

So even here, in the heart of Somersetshire, 
she was still to be haunted by Anthony Eger- 
ton’s name; she could not escape. 

“Dear Miss Travers; you are looking quite 
faint. Let me open the window a moment. 
You are tired to-day, and I am talking, per- 
haps, too much?” 

“Oh, no,” said Anne. “I am quite well, 


196 


ONLY ANNE 


thank you — and I never faint, so do not be 
alarmed. Please go on; I am so interested. 
You were speaking of Sir Anthony? I have 
met him.” 

She pulled herself together with a great ef- 
fort. But Lady Brettingham was quite satis- 
fied, and resumed her history. 

“Of course, I dread Eric’s going into these 
wild, savage, unsafe places, and I wish he 
would marry and settle down in England. Or 
even if he did not marry, he could live here so 
happily and help to look after the estate. But 
with such men as Sir Anthony and Major 
Graham he ought to be quite safe ; do you not 
think so?” 

“I am sure he ought to be safe,” said Anne 
dully. 

“And Sir Anthony is charming. Eric quite 
adores him — it is almost a case of hero-worship. 
He thinks all the world of him. Of course 
there is no doubt he does possess that very 
strong personal magnetism which makes a man 
a good leader. He has been down here once or 
twice, but he is not at all a society man, as I 
daresay you know.” 

She rose to go. 

“Elf shall ride down on her pony one morn- 
ing,” she said. “I want you to know my little 


ONLY ANNE 


197 


girl. I am sure you will get on well with each 
other. She is such a clever, dreamy child, and 
I am sure you care a great deal for reading, 
too — you have such a quantity of charming 
books !” 

In spite of herself Anne began to take an 
unwilling interest in the Brettinghams, though 
she was dismayed to find that they were ac- 
quainted with Anthony Egerton. Had she 
been earlier in possession of this fact she did 
not think- she would have bought the cottage, 
nor entertained the definite plan of settling in 
Middlecombe. 

“It is just my luck,” she said to herself 
rather ruefully when her visitor had gone. “I 
wish I had only heard him mention their 
names ; that would have been a danger signal.” 

But it is an unwritten law that one may not 
quarrel with one’s country neighbors. Many 
strange intimacies and unlikely friendships 
have owed their existence to the fact that the 
persons thus involved once lived near each 
other in the country. Anne was resolved to 
make the best of them, and if she proved less 
sociable than Lady Brettingham hoped, she 
could, at any rate, always make them welcome 
when they came to her cottage. 

Elf rode down on the following morning. 


198 


ONLY ANNE 


for her mother had given such a favorable de- 
scription of Anne that she was extremely curi- 
ous to see her. 

She was a slim, delicate, rather fragile per- 
son with bright golden hair and large blue eyes. 
She was like her mother, but far more refined 
looking, and built on a smaller, slighter scale. 

“I have been simply longing to see you. Miss 
Travers,” she said very seriously. “You know 
one can’t help being curious about one’s new 
neighbors — we have so few excitements in Mid- 
dlecombe. And then you don’t come to church, 
which makes you even more mysterious and in- 
visible.” 

“But I am a Catholic,” said Anne, smiling. 
“I go to the Catholic church.” 

“Oh, do you?” said Elf. “I have only just 
been inside it. But I go to the nuns to learn 
French and I am very fond of them. I hope 
I have not come too early?” 

“No; I begin my day early,” said Anne. 
She led the way into her drawing-room, where 
a big fire was blazing. 

“What lovely flowers!” said Elf, sniffing at 
a great bowl of violets. 

“Yes; there are lots out now,” said Anne. 
“I think poor Miss Shepton must have been 


ONLY ANNE 199 

very fond of them, there are so many in the 
garden.” 

“Yes, she always liked them best,” said Elf 
with sudden gravity. “She was such a dear. I 
often used to come and see her, and I liked to 
watch her when she was painting. She made 
the big back bedroom into a studio.” Her blue 
eyes filled with tears. “When she went away 
she did not tell me about the operation she was 
going to have. But she told mother, and said 
she did not think she would survive it. But 
don’t you think you will be very dull here. Miss 
Travers? You see. Miss Shepton was elderly 
and ill; she liked to be quiet and not to see 
many people. She was fond of her work. But 
you are young and not ill; I wonder how you 
can bear it?” 

“But I like it very much,” said Anne, laugh- 
ing. “I am quite happy here. But you must 
come and see me whenever you like.” 

Elf looked round the room in the same ap- 
preciative way as her mother had done. 

“This is much prettier than Middlecombe 
Park,” she said. “I wish I could have my sit- 
ting-room done up just like this. White walls 
and a lovely old Persian rug and nice white 
book-shelves just like yours. But I am always 


200 


ONLY ANNE 


wanting to have it changed ; I get tired of hav- 
ing the same carpets and paper.” 

She stayed and talked to Anne for a consid- 
erable time and told her a great deal about her 
two brothers, informing her that there had been 
another telegram from Eric that morning, say- 
ing it was now most improbable that he would 
be allowed to accompany the others on the ex- 
pedition. He had been suffering from fever 
almost ever since he landed. 

“You can’t imagine how glorious Eric is. 
Miss Travers,” she said, her little fair face be- 
coming quite vivid, “and he is quite beautiful 
to look at, too. Vivian is a dear and very jolly 
and amusing, but there is something different 
about Eric — different from any one else. He 
never teases like Vivian, and he is so immense 
and strong and kind. I am quite longing for 
you to see him !” 

Anne felt that she did not wish at all to meet 
this wonderful Eric, with his admiration 
amounting almost to hero-worship of Anthony 
Egerton. She resolved that she would defer 
such a meeting — if it proved to be absolutely 
unavoidable — for as long as possible. She did 
not wish to see any friend of Anthony’s — espe- 
cially one who was from time to time so closely 
associated with his work as Eric Brettingham 


ONLY ANNE 


201 


seemed to be. She wished more than ever to 
shut the fatal remembrance of Anthony from 
her heart; knowing him had already cost her 
too much. 

“Eric isn’t at all like any of us,” continued 
Elf naively; “he doesn’t seem quite to belong 
here, though we are all so awfully devoted to 
him. Mother is always urging him to settle 
down and look after the estate. You see, Dad 
doesn’t care for that sort of thing. He hates 
Middlecomhe.” 

Elf took an immense fancy to Anne and 
visited her frequently. Often she came down 
in her little car and insisted upon Anne’s ac- 
companying her for a long drive. Thus the 
rest of the autumn passed sufficiently agree- 
ably for Anne and she began to feel she had 
found a pleasant retreat, with kind neighbors 
who liked her, at Middlecombe. And the quiet 
green hills and wooded valleys of Somerset- 
shire held her captive. She did not wish to go 
away. 

Of Myrtle she heard nothing at all. Beyond 
the occasional information she gleaned from 
the newspapers as to her whereabouts and the 
health of her husband, no word of her came. 
Lord Chard had made a wonderful recovery 


202 


ONLY ANNE 


since the summer, and though the improve- 
ment, as Anne knew, could only be temporary, 
he was back in London and was no longer com- 
pletely invalided. He was in no immediate 
danger, and his physicians now affirmed that, 
with care, he might live for years. 

Middlecombe was more quiet and sleepy 
than ever in the winter, and nothing of interest 
occurred there. But one day Elf came scam- 
pering down on her pony to Anne’s cottage to 
inform her that they had had a telegram from 
Eric saying that he was now on his way home. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Eric Brettingham’s return was fixed for the 
second week in January. The whole village 
appeared to have lost its head at the prospect 
of welcoming him home. He was by far the 
most popular of all his family with the people 
of the place, and they were really proud of 
their little hero. 

It was to be done in quite an old-fashioned 
way, with a great deal of sentiment and red 
bunting. Bonfires, triumphal arches, appro- 
priate mottoes, were all being prepared for his 
reception. 

Anne was rather aghast at the preparations. 
Her sympathies went out to the unfortunate 
recipient of all this honor. From Elf’s descrip- 
tion of her adored Eric, she felt he would cer- 
tainly detest all this parade, especially as the 
expedition, from his own point of view, had 
terminated so ignominiously with a bout of 
fever. 

Incidentally she heard a great deal about 
Sir Anthony at this time; he loomed large in 
all Eric’s letters, of which Elf was always full. 
Scarcely a day passed without her coming 
203 


204 


ONLY ANNE 


down to the cottage, either to give Anne the 
latest news or, in default of this, to talk over 
his approaching arrival. 

He had apparently left Sir Anthony well 
and had witnessed his departure accompanied 
by Major Graham and a large native escort. 
Sir Anthony was going to make a valuable 
survey; he anticipated little opposition from 
the tribes he would have to encounter, and he 
had started off in high spirits as to the result 
of his mission. 

“Of course Sir Anthony was compelled to 
weed out all the weakly ones,’^ said liady Bret- 
tingham, who came down one morning full of 
her son’s forthcoming arrival. “Dear Eric has 
hardly ever had a day’s illness before in his life, 
but this time he really had a very severe attack 
of fever, and under the circumstances it would 
not have been at all safe for him to go on. I 
am only too thankful that he fell ill before they 
had actually started. I suppose Elf has told 
you he will really be here on Friday? It seems 
too good to be true. We never imagined that 
he could be here so soon. Not too much time 
to prepare the fatted calf, is there? But the 
dear boy won’t mind that; he will only say, 
‘I’m glad there wasn’t more fuss.’ He is so 
simple !” 


ONLY ANNE 


205 


Every one was Eric-mad. Even Anns was 
forced unwillingly into the little gulf of local 
excitement. It would have been churlish to 
hold aloof, and she would have been more eager 
in her sympathy had the whole affair not held 
for her such a deep and secret personal interest. 
She longed and yet feared to hear news of An- 
thony from one who had seen him so recently. 
She had tried to put him from her thoughts 
in vain. 

She was always being invited up to the Park 
to give advice and assistance. Since the day 
when she had rashly revealed her acquaintance 
with Anthony to Lady Brettingham, her social 
position in Middlecombe had become as fixed 
as the unchanging stars. Lady Brettingham 
had, however, consolidated her adoption of 
Anne by making sundry inquiries about her, 
and to use her own words, she had “found out 
all about the Traverses.” They had a charm- 
ing old place in Gloucestershire, and Anne was 
the niece of Mr. Vincent Travers, who now 
owned it ; she was the orphan daughter of his 
elder brother. 

Her informant, a Bath lady, had added: 

“I do not think this girl is really at all ec- 
centric, and I have heard that she is very 
charming and clever, but her father was quite 


206 


ONLY ANNE 


a hermit and she takes after him and has always 
insisted upon living alone !” 

Now she was, furthermore, the recipient of 
a vicarigus glory because she knew the great 
Egerton, who, next to Eric, was a considerable 
hero in Middlecombe. 

“Eric will be charmed,” said Lady Bretting- 
ham with gracious condescension, “to find some 
one here who knows his hero ; he will bore you 
to death talking about him. Miss Travers!” 

This was just a little more than poor Anne 
could face when it came to the point. She de- 
cided that her courage failed entirely before 
the prospect of Eric’s return, and without say- 
ing a word to any one, she fled to town a few 
days before he was due to arrive. 

She felt that at all costs she must avoid these 
dreadful preliminary rejoicings. 

A few days later she received an effusive, 
rather reproachful letter from Elf, forwarded 
from the cottage. 

“Eric has come, and he doesn’t look so very 
ill, although he is much thinner. He is puzzled 
about you. He says he can’t understand why 
you should live in a hole like Middlecombe and 
quite by yourself if you are all that I say. 
For of course I have told him how pretty and 
clever you are. I have made him quite anxious 


ONLY ANNE 


207 


to see you. He is a great dear and I am sure 
you will like him. It is a pity you were obliged 
to go away just as he arrived; it was a great 
disappointment to us all. But I suppose your 
London friends thought you had been away 
quite long enough, so perhaps it was selfish of 
us to wish to keep you. Only I wish you had 
told me you were going — you seemed to disap- 
pear so suddenly. I wish you could have seen 
Eric’s arrival. When he got to the village 
they took the horses out of the carriage and 
dragged it up to the house. I don’t think Eric 
liked all the fuss much, for he said he had done 
nothing at all but take two long, dull sea voy- 
ages, and then lie for six weeks in a horrid hos- 
pital.” 

Anne’s first meeting with Eric was rather a 
remarkable one and took place on the evening 
of her return from town. She had been very 
unhappy in London, and had missed Myrtle 
unspeakably. She could hear nothing of her, 
but had walked twice past the house and had 
seen that it evinced signs of habitation. She 
once caught a glimpse of Lord Chard driving 
in a closed carriage in the Park. He did not 
see her. She had paid no visits, had not dis- 
closed her whereabouts to any one, and had 
only done a little necessary shopping. 


208 


ONLY ANNE 


There was a thick fog on the day she left 
which seemed to spread right across England. 
It followed her down to the West-country like 
a solid white blur. When she reached the sta- 
tion she was told that the four miles between 
there and Middlecombe were practically im- 
passable on account of the fog, which seemed 
to grow denser as night came on. The cab- 
men refused to drive her thither and she was 
advised to remain in Nether Cross for the 
night. 

This prospect did not commend itself to her 
at all, and at last, by dint of holding out an 
exorbitant reward, she prevailed upon the 
driver of a lumbering and ancient vehicle to 
make the attempt, which he did none too will- 
ingly. Anne soon had cause to regret her bar- 
gain, for they had not gone very far when the 
man dismounted, and said he would try and 
reach Middlecombe, only he must walk and 
lead his horse. 

‘T ’opes as ’ow we shaiin’t meet none of them 
motor things, miss,” he remarked ominously 
as he went trudging forth into the blinding 
darkness. 

It was now about half past seven, as the 
train had been greatly delayed; the night was 
raw and cold, and Anne felt chilled to the bone, 


ONLY ^ANNE 


209 


There seemed but little prospect of reaching 
Middlecombe for many hours, judging by their 
present rate of progress. The suggestion, too, 
that they might meet some of “them motor 
things” had contributed still further to quench 
her spirits. 

About a mile and a half from the station 
there was a small and redoubtable hamlet of 
singularly evil repute called Craddon. It must 
be acknowledged that it owed its ill reputation 
entirely to the presence of a disreputable fam- 
ily who had contributed at least two inmates 
to the county gaol, and more recently a con- 
vict to Portland prison. This was sufficient, 
however, to characterize all the inhabitants as 
a rough lot, and the more respectable families 
had seen fit to move further afield, either to 
Eastcote or Middlecombe. 

Craddon consisted only of a few cottages 
and a little inn, which stood quite at the end of 
the village. Its lights showed ^at palely 
through the fog, but to the man they evidently 
held out an immediate prospect of warmth and 
comfort of a definitely alcoholic nature. He 
therefore stopped, and the horse, not unwill- 
ingly, stopped too. 

“ ’Tain’t saafe to goa on, missy,” he said in 
his slow drawl, “not fur maan nor beast.” He 


210 


ONLY ANNE 


pulled reflectively at a thin forelock. “Uz ud 
better turn baack agaain.” 

Anne emerged from the fly, a forlorn and 
rather frightened-looking figure. She knew 
Craddon well by repute. 

“Oh, do please try and go on,” she said im- 
ploringly; “I do so want to get home.” 

“No use, missy,” he said, blowing on his fin- 
gers, “uz ud be in the Crad zure as faate.” 

An idea forced itself into his slow- working 
brain. 

“Mebbe they’d give you a shaake-down at 
th’ inn yonder,” he suggested obstinately. 

A shake-down at Craddon was at no time an 
alluring prospect. “Them be a rough lot 
round Craddon,” was a saying Anne had heard 
often enough at Middlecombe; consequently 
she had always given the place a wide berth. 
The superior residents of Middlecombe had no 
dealings with the inhabitants of Craddon. 
They tried to ignore the fact that in the cleri- 
cal directory it enjoyed the distinction of being 
attached to it, with the compound title of Mid- 
dlecombe-cum-Craddon. 

“I shall have to try and walk if you think the 
horse really can’t do it,” said Anne in despair. 
“It can’t be so very far — two miles and a half 
y^erhaps.” 


ONLY ANNE 


211 


“Best part of three mile, missy, and on zuch 
a night ’tain’t ’ardly saafe goin’,” he said. 

Anne almost stamped her foot. 

“Perhaps you would bring up my box in 
the morning when the fog has cleared,” she 
said in a brisk, courageous tone. 

“You caan’t do it, missy,” he said, not with- 
out admiration at the pluck of this fragile-look- 
ing girl; “you’d be in the Crad zure as faate.” 
He repeated his gloomy prophecy almost with 
pride. 

“I am sure they will lend me a lantern at the 
inn,” she said, and went a step forward toward 
that glimmering light. 

She went up to the door of the inn and tim- 
idly knocked. 

It was opened after some delay by a surly- 
looking woman who kept the place and whose 
reputation was rather in accordance with local 
tradition. Moreover, she had been embroiled 
in that historic brawl which had been of a se- 
verely domestic nature and in which she had 
come off considerably the worst. Her hus- 
band’s longer expiation was still being per- 
formed at Portland. 

Her face was deeply scarred with a fear- 
some gash which completely disfigured one 
eyebrow. Her type was of a low, rather repiil- 


212 


ONLY ANNE 


sive kind, and as she looked at Anne there was 
nothing in her appearance to restore the girl’s 
confidence in the village, nor to make her re- 
gard in a more favorable light the suggestion 
of her companion that she should pass the 
night within that house. Rather than that, she 
would have endeavored to find her way back 
to the station. 

As she stood on the threshold making her 
modest request for the loan of a lantern, a 
drunken man lurched out. Passing, he reeled 
against her, nearly knocking her down. She 
felt now both frightened and miserable, and 
began to despair of ever reaching her own four 
walls. 

“I suppose there isn’t a boy or any one who 
could come part of the way to Middlecombe 
with me?” she said, now thoroughly terrified 
at the prospect of the long, lonely, and perilous 
walk. 

“No; there baain’t no one,” said the woman 
roughly; “folks as caan’t find their way should 
no’ go out on zuch a night. You can ztaay if 
you choose or go if you choose,” she added in- 
hospitably. 

The glimpse of the interior of the inn had 
awakened an iron determination in Anne’s 
heart to face the terrible prospect of that lonely 


ONLY ANNE 


213 


walk home rather than enter its doors. She 
turned once more in appeal to the driver of 
the fly. 

“Don’t you think you could really make the 
attempt?” she said, with a note of entreaty in 
her voice. 

“ ’Taain’t zaafe, missy,” he repeated, edging 
toward the door of the inn, which for him pre- 
sented no terrors and offered him, indeed, the 
kind of comfort he desired “to keep the cold 
out.” 

“Then could I have the lantern, please?” said 
Anne. “I will send it back in the morning, 
or as soon as the fog has lifted.” 

Grudgingly the woman produced the lan- 
tern, a heavy and cumbrous one, which Anne 
took, giving in exchange a piece of silver. She 
set off slowly on her perilous walk, wondering 
whether she would be able to avoid falling into 
the river. 

The dim lights of Craddon were soon left be- 
hind and extinguished by that bleak and im- 
penetrable pall of fog. The darkness and 
choking mist made Anne sick and giddy; she 
stumbled forward, not knowing in the least 
where she was. She did not know the road at 
all well. When she had gone for a few hun- 
dred yards she found herself suddenly upon 


214 


ONLY ANNE 


what appeared to be a steep bank, and, draw- 
ing back in horror, she heard, to her intense 
dismay, the low, swirling sound of the river, 
much swollen by the recent heavy rain, flowing 
within a few feet of her. 

The man’s words recurred to her with omin- 
ous persistence: 

“Uz ud be in the Crad zure as faate!” 

She tried to pull herself up with a jerk, but 
the ground was wet and slippery ; she missed 
her footing and fell face forwards. The lan- 
tern fell with a splash into the river below, and 
Anne was very near to sharing its fate. But 
her hand struck something hard; she clung to 
it with fierce strength, and found that it was 
the slim trunk of a willow tree. 

Her heart was beating suffocatingly; she 
trembled from head to foot. Here she was 
alone, lost in the fog and darkness, having only 
just managed to escape death by drowning in 
the swollen, angry waters of the Crad. She 
was wet through from her contact with the long 
river grass. She managed after some time to 
drag herself once more to her feet, and with 
some difficulty regained the road, but she had 
completely lost her moorings and did not know 
in the least which way to go. Even Craddon 


ONLY ANNE 


215 


appeared to her now a safe and secure shelter. 
But Craddon was also lost to sight in that dense 
obscurity. She walked on for a few yards, 
hoping that she was following the windings of 
the road, when she suddenly fell headlong into 
a deep ditch half full of water, whence she 
emerged soused to the waist and covered with 
evil-smelling mud. 

It seemed hopeless either to go on or turn 
back. But the prospect of sitting by the wet 
roadside until the morning was not an exhila- 
rating one. Between flooded rivers and deep 
ditches Anne was having a sorry time when 
suddenly out of the darkness a flash of light — 
like a wandering will-of-the-wisp — appeared 
and forthwith vanished. 

A footstep, mufiled and halting, sounded 
close to her ; the light became once more dimly 
visible; a tall, shadow-like figure loomed ob- 
scurely through the fog. Anne shrank back 
and held her breath in terror. This, no doubt, 
was one of those redoubtable characters who, it 
was said, sought shelter in Craddon; perhaps 
the news of her mad plan of walking home to 
Middlecombe had penetrated those evil haunts, 
and she had been followed hither to be robbed, 
and perhaps murdered! She crouched low on 


216 


ONLY ANNE 


the sodden grass by the wayside, hoping that 
she might not be found in the fog that now 
concealed her. 

“I’m positively certain that I heard some 
one,” said a voice so clearly and distinctly that 
she knew it could not be far off. “Where are 
you? Who are you?” 

This was, indeed, no tramp’s voice ; it had a 
quick, decisive, almost dictatorial ring about it 
that fell on Anne’s ears with the very sweetness 
of music. To her terrified and disordered 
nerves it seemed to possess a magic quality. 

“I am here — I am lost,” she said, “and I can 
not see you. Perhaps you will be good enough 
to tell me where I am — and direct me to Mid- 
dlecombe !” 

“To Middlecombe?” echoed the voice. “I 
wish to goodness I could! We are both bound 
on the same fool’s errand, I am afraid. What 
on earth are you doing here alone at this hour 
and in this fog? I thought I was the only mad 
person out to-night 1” 

He was standing in front of her, and the 
flickering light of the small electric lantern he 
held disclosed the owner of the voice to view. 
Not a very clear view, it must be said, but one 
that was quite sufficient to reassure Anne. Plis 
features were not very distinct and showed 


ONLY ANNE 


217 


through a kind of yellowish haze cast by the 
lantern, but the general impression was one of 
largeness and strength. On his side, he sur- 
veyed with a humorous compassion the forlorn 
and wretchedly muddy little heap of humanity 
that was crouching helplessly on the grass at 
his feet. 

“You have chosen a damp spot, haven’t 
you?” he said. “Here — give me your hand. 
The sooner you get up out of that, the better. 
I expect you are pretty near frozen, aren’t 
you?” He pulled Anne to her feet. “I did 
think I was the maddest person in the world to 
attempt to walk up from Nether Cross to- 
night, but you have beaten me all to fits. 
Without a lantern, too ! How did you manage 
to get even as far as this?” 

“I drove to Craddon,” said Anne, “but the 
man refused to go any further, although I tried 
to bribe him. And I borrowed a lantern, but 
it fell into the Crad. I very nearly fell in, too; 
in that case I should most certainly have been 
drowned !” 

“You look half drowned as it is,” he re- 
marked, coolly regarding her. “You must be 
wet through. Well, take my arm and we will 
see if we can not defeat the fog yet. You said 
you were going to Middlecombe? So am I.” 


218 


ONLY ANNE 


Clinging to his arm, Anne plunged with re- 
newed courage into the choking and blinding 
fog. 

“You must say if I am going too fast, but if 
you can keep it up it will be much better for 
you,” he said presently. 

“Oh, I am quite able to do it,” said Anne. 
She glanced timidly up at her strange pro- 
tector. His hat — a soft felt one — was pulled 
over his eyes ; the collar of his coat was turned 
up almost to his ears; there was very little of 
his face visible. 

“You are going to the Park?” she asked. 
She had felt all along that this man must be 
the wonderful Eric. 

“Yes. I am Eric Brettingham. Perhaps, if 
you live in Middlecombe, you know my people ? 
You can hardly avoid knowing us by name!” 

“Oh, yes, I know your people,” said Anne. 
“My name is Anne Travers, and I live at Miss 
Shepton’s cottage.” 

“Oh, so you are Elf s friend,” he said in a 
tone of surprise. “Do you always wander 
about like this alone on foggy nights? I 
should not choose Craddon for the venue of 
such expeditions if I were you. It is none too 
safe, and the inhabitants are a drunken lot and 
apt to be uncivil!” 


ONLY ANNE 


219 


‘‘I know they are,” said Anne. “I was ter- 
rified when I heard your step — I thought you 
were one of them. I was trying to hide from 
you.” 

“Were you? I am not at all surprised,” he 
said, hunching his shoulders. 

“You see, having come as far as Craddon, I 
simply had not the courage to stay there and 
put up at that dreadful inn, with the murder- 
ous-looking woman!” 

“No, I should think not. Madam Gray is 
an evil-looking woman, and she is not going to 
have her license renewed, if that is any comfort 
to you. I think, perhaps, on the whole, your 
determination to sit by the roadside was almost 
wiser. But you ran the risk of getting rheu- 
matic fever and all sort of horrors, to say noth- 
ing of your narrow escape from drowning in 
the Crad. I suppose you had given up all hope 
of getting home alive when I found you?” 

“Yes,” said Ajine with a smile. “You see, I 
had fallen right into the ditch and almost into 
the river, and I am wet through and very 
muddy. My dress must be ruined!” 

“Well, we are companions in misfortune, al- 
though I have not fared quite as badly as you,” 
he said cheerily. “I am already nearly two 
hours late and there was to be a banquet — one 


220 


ONLY ANNE 


of many — in my honor to-night.” She felt 
rather than saw that he made a grimace as he 
uttered these words. 

“You can’t think how relieved I was to hear 
your voice and to find you were not a tramp!” 
said Anne. 

“But I am a tramp,” he said gravely; “it is 
my vocation. Only, when it is done on a large 
and epic scale, we dignify it by the name of 
explorer. You can not imagine how difficult 
it is to settle down between four walls and sub- 
mit to a conventional existence with five fixed 
meals — three of them enormous ones — per day ! 
And these banquets will be the death of me. 
But I am going to have the good luck to escape 
this one! Now — forwards! Try and keep as 
close to me as you can, and don’t let go or we 
shall lose each other. And I hope we may not 
both fall into the ditch. The Crad is safely be- 
hind us, I am thankful to say!” 

It took them the best part of an hour longer 
to gain the outskirts of Middlecombe. It was 
an intense relief to both of them to discern the 
first palely-glimmering light flickering with 
uncertain and half-obscured radiance through 
the fog. By the time they reached Anne’s cot- 
tage they had become friends through a com- 
mon adversity, as people do in a cataclysm. 


ONLY ANNE 


221 


such as an earthquake or shipwreck; although 
they could not yet be said to have seen each 
other. This anomaly was, perhaps, uppermost 
in both their minds when they entered the hall 
of Anne’s abode, and Jael came running out, 
effusive in her expressions of relief at seeing 
her safely at home. 

“Me and Clotilde have had such a fright, 
miss,” she said; “we were going to send some 
one out to look for you. Why — you are wet 
through!” She stooped and squeezed the water 
from Anne’s soaking skirts. “You’ll catch 
your death of cold. If you go upstairs I’ll 
bring you some hot water.” 

“Bring us something to eat as quickly as you 
can, please, Jael,” said Anne; “never mind 
about my clothes. You will stay and have 
something, won’t you, Mr. Brettingham, since 
you have missed the banquet?” 

“Yes,” he said; “I should like that im- 
mensely, but I mustn’t stop long. Only do go 
and take off your wet things, Miss Travers.” 

Anne led the way into the drawing-room. 
And there, under the mellowed radiance flung 
by an old brass hanging lamp, she and Eric 
Brettingham looked at each other for the first 
time. 

Eric, at that period of his career, could only 


222 


ONLY ANNE 


have been called beautiful. He was tall and 
slender. His features were delicately drawn 
and yet they were not effeminate. The hair 
was loose and golden above his brow and he 
had strange eyes of dark violet-blue. He be- 
longed to that type which, of old, created won- 
derment in the slave-markets of Rome, and in- 
spired the immortal dictum, "‘Non angli sed 
angelif^ 

Hi^eyes rested upon Anne with ill-disguised 
admiration. Elf had described Anne to him 
as charmingly pretty, and he had liked her 
voice when she spoke to him in the darkness ; he 
had hoped that the face would match the voice, 
and he was not disappointed. But what he 
remembered almost poignantly was the touch 
of her little thin arm as it had rested in his. 

“Even your face is splashed with mud,” said 
Eric calmly. 

“Oh, is it? I must run up and take off these 
wet things. I won’t keep you long.” 

She came back wearing a white tea-gown of 
some thick and soft material. Her dark eyes 
were shining. With all traces of mud removed 
she appeared to him a charming and dainty 
vision. 

He was the first guest who had dined with 
her since Myrtle’s departure. 


ONLY ANNE 


223 


The meal was a very simple one, but they 
both enjoyed the hot soup whieh Jael had pre- 
pared. They could laugh now over their ad- 
venture; it all seemed so entirely absurd and 
humorous that Anne wondered how she could 
ever have felt so alarmed and despairing. 

‘T shall not attempt to cross the Park to- 
night,” said Eric presently. ‘T shall telephone 
from the lodge and say I am there and get Mrs. 
Mack to give me a bed. I don’t see myself fac- 
ing the fog again.” 

The lodge gates were not very far from 
Anne’s cottage, and though the fog showed no 
sign of lifting, it was practically impossible to 
miss them. But he did not seem in any hurry 
to go away. He sat and talked to Anne long 
after the meal was over, smoking innumerable 
cigarettes, and feeling not at all as if he had 
only made her acquaintance two hours before, 
beside a deep ditch on the road to Craddon. 

It was nearly ten when he rose to go. 

“Good-night, Miss Travers,” he said; “I 
hope you will not be any the worse for your 
ducking. I shall look in to-morrow, if you will 
let me, and see how you are. I’d better go back 
now and reassure Elf as to my own safety.” 

And with a laugh he strode out, and was 
soon lost to sight in the all-enveloping fog. 


224 


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So their first meeting had passed with, mer- 
cifully, no mention of Anthony’s name. She 
felt thankful for the little respite, although, 
woman-like, she had desired to hear mention of 
what she also dreaded. There was something 
in her heart that did most earnestly desire to 
hear news of Anthony, especially from one 
who must have seen him so lately. Still his 
name had refused to be uttered. Perhaps to- 
morrow Eric would speak of him without any 
word from Anne. 

She was now very tired and exhausted and 
thankful to go to bed. The adventure had 
given her a slight chill, accompanied by fever, 
and for some time she lay there shivering, in 
spite of the hot bottles and extra blankets 
which Jael had insisted upon bringing. When 
at last she fell asleep she dreamed that she was 
lost, and that all around her there was a great 
and suffocating darkness, through which she 
could hear two voices — the voices of Myrtle 
and Anthony. And as she blundered through 
that black obscurity she came suddenly upon a 
space of vivid golden light and there Myrtle 
and Anthony were waiting for her and saying: 
“Anne, you mysterious child, where in the 
world have you been hiding yourself?” And 
in her dream Myrtle was gazing kindly into her 


ONLY ANNE 


225 


face, and Anthony stood near her smiling — 
Myrtle and Anthony, who had passed so com- 
pletely out of her life that she could hardly 
hope ever to see either of them again. 

She awoke sobbing. The morning sunlight 
sent a pale golden beam, very wan and wintry, 
into her room. A wind had sprung up, chasing 
the fog; there was a feeling almost of spring 
in the air. 

She wondered why she had dreamed that 
Myrtle and Anthony and not Eric Bretting- 
ham had found her when she was lost in the 
fog. 


CHAPTER XV 


Eric Brettingham appeared about tea-time 
on the following day, and by that time Anne 
had sufficiently recovered to be able to receive 
him. She had spent a long morning in bed, and 
the effects of the chill had somewhat passed off, 
though she still looked rather pale and tired. 

She was alone in the drawing-room when he 
was announced, and the bright, glancing fire- 
light cast a pleasant radiance on the silver tea 
things. The perfume of violets, lilies, and 
azaleas distilled fragrance. Eric looked round 
contentedly and drew his chair close to the 
fire. Thus he was sitting exactly opposite 
Anne, and he fell to watching her quiet move- 
ments; there was something about her which 
already strongly appealed to him, and he very 
seldom paid any attention to girls. Indeed, he 
had long been the despair of those mothers 
with marriageable daughters who, year by 
year, visited the Park. 

He explained that he had been unable to get 
away earlier in the afternoon. 

‘‘There are so many bores up at home just 
now,” he said; “they have come to shoot, and 

226 


ONLY ANNE 227 

very few of them can even do that. And I am 
sick of slaughtering tame pheasants!” 

“You seem to disdain the fatted calf in any 
shape or form,” said Anne, laughing, for she 
knew that the big shoot had been saved against 
his return. 

“I do not admit — as you seem to suggest — 
that I am a prodigal,” he answered, smiling. 

“Your welcome home ” she reminded 

him. 

“Yes; that was awful; but if you had only 
been there, you would have seen that I endured 
it with remarkable fortitude,” he said. “I 
simply longed to slink in quietly at dead of 
night in the motor. But they would all have 
been so disgusted with me! I had the whole 
thing — bonfires, triumphal arches, dreadful 
mottoes about the conquering hero! I wasn’t 
a hero, and I hadn’t done any conquering, and 
they all knew that as well as I did. If Egerton 
could only have seen the show — Egerton is my 
chief, you know — he would have had a fit — 
ten fits! By the way. Elf tells me that you 
have met Egerton. Isn’t he splendid?” 

“Splendid,” echoed Anne, depriving her 
voice of all enthusiasm and pronouncing the 
word in a tone of polite assent. “How is he?” 

“Well, he said he was all right, but to my 


228 


ONLY ANNE 


thinking he didn’t seem nearly so fit as usual 
this time. I think that was why he didn’t want 
to be bothered with other people who threatened 
to turn out crocks. I just hated turning back 
— it was the only time I’ve been at all rebel- 
lious. But Egerton always has his own way. 
Y ou can’t go against him. He came to me and 
said: ‘I absolutely refuse to take you. You 
would be a danger to the whole party, and one 
sick man might make the whole show a failure. 
That is my last word.’ I felt I almost hated 
him then; but he is marvelous, and I knew he 
was right.” 

Eric spoke enthusiastically. He looked far 
too slight and fragile for great endurance, 
Anne thought, with his delicate face and slim, 
graceful form. But there was a boyish eager- 
ness about him which would take him through 
a good deal. 

He was so strangely unlike both his parents 
that it was almost impossible to believe he 
could really be their son, although sometimes, 
when he was speaking, Anne caught a fugitive 
resemblance to Elf. 

“You said,” she remarked, “that Sir An- 
thony didn’t look so fit this time. He wasn’t 
ill, was he?” 

She poured out another cup of tea. 


ONLY ANNE 


229 


“No, he wasn’t ill, but he wasn’t nearly so 
cheery or in such good spirits. It wasn’t my 
imagination — several other people noticed it, 
too. We thought perhaps something had gone 
wrong while he was in England. But he is 
always very reticent about his own affairs.” 

“Where is he now?” asked Anne. 

“Somewhere on his way to the middle of 
Central Africa. I could show you pretty well 
the exact spot if we had a map. They have 
been gone a couple of months now. He’s do- 
ing a survey, among other things. It isn’t ex- 
actly the job for which he’s most suited, but 
they wanted him to do it because he knows so 
many of the native languages — can pow-wow 
with half the tribes he will come across. You 
see, it isn’t a diplomatic job, as his others have 
been. Any good, hard, keen pioneer man 
would have done it just as well. Still I would 
have given my eyes to go with him, just for the 
sport of the thing! But he was awfully firm 
and told me plainly I should be much more 
bother than I was worth. So I stayed in hos- 
pital till I was quite fit, and then came home 
cursing my luck!” 

They sat and talked over the fire for quite 
a long time. To Eric the atmosphere of 
Anne’s cottage — so reposeful and so quiet — 


230 


ONLY ANNE 


was simply charming; none of the big, stately 
rooms at the Park were half so sympathetic 
as this one, with its flowers and books and cosy 
tea-table. The warmth, the subdued lamp- 
light, the perfume of the great bunches of 
damp, purple, fragrant violets, the girl sitting 
opposite to him in her white dress, completed 
a picture which seemed to him perfect in all 
its details. The mysterious occupant of the 
cottage had excited his curiosity before he had 
ever seen her; he had, however, distrusted Elf’s 
enthusiastic description of Anne, knowing that 
her swans had on previous occasions proved to 
be the most indubitable geese ; and he had been 
not a little surprised to find his new neighbor 
so pretty and attractive, with her beautiful 
dark eyes and grave, cultured voice. 

The adventure of the previous evening had 
precipitated their intimacy, and they talked 
together as if their friendship had been of old 
standing, feeling as if they had known each 
other for a number of years. 

“What a pretty little box you have made of 
this,” he said presently, gazing around him in 
his manner, which was so frank as to be almost 
disconcerting. “I couldn’t simply imagine 
what had induced you to bury yourself here 
when Elf first told me about you. It is such a 


ONLY ANNE 


231 


very out-of-the-way place, and I don’t suppose 
you had even heard our names.” 

“No, I had never heard about you. I didn’t 
know who my neighbors would be,” said Anne. 
“But you see I have been most fortunate. 
Your mother and sister have been very kind 
to me ; they have not allowed me to feel at all 
dull. And the place is my own now.” 

“Do you mean you intend to settle yourself 
here forever?” he inquired in an amazed tone. 

“Oh, I like to have a place in the country to 
come to, but I shall not give up my little flat in 
town,” said Anne. “Just for the moment I 
felt a little tired of it. However much you love 
London, there comes a time when you feel as if 
you could not go on bearing the noise and dirt 
of it. And I like the quiet, and the church is 
near, and I felt sure that I could lead a very 
retired and peaceful life here!” 

Eric regarded her thoughtfully. This vague 
suggestion of mystery about her, the pensive 
and rather haunting sadness of her eyes, en- 
hanced her charm to him, although he felt that 
her desire for quiet was somewhat ambiguous. 

“You are altogether too young. Miss Trav- 
ers, to bury yourself like this,” he said. “If you 
were twenty years older there might be some 
excuse. Does it really content you?” 


232 


ONLY ANNE 


“It does now/’ she replied, flushing a little 
under his direct and rather searching gaze. 

“Ah, I understand,” he said with sudden 
sympathy, almost as if he were reading her 
thoughts; “I have had my earthquakes, too!” 

Had he suffered, then — this man with the 
extraordinarily boyish face, who looked like a 
Renaissance saint as depicted by a master of 
the Quattro-cento in some old Italian gallery 
or church, with his loose, bright hair and dark 
violet eyes and grave, brave look? 

Anne only said: 

“Your earthquakes did not, perhaps, remove 
the very ground from under your feet, and 
shake down your palace of dreams.” 

She had never before alluded to her disaster 
with so much bitterness — even to herself. 

“No,” he answered serenely, “I should not 
have permitted them to do that.” 

“I could not help it,” said Anne. 

He gave her a swift look. 

“I am going to ask you a leading question,” 
he said quietly; “you know you need not an- 
swer it unless you like. You are not,” he 
paused, wondering if, after all, he dared ven- 
ture to say it when he had only known her for 
a few hours. “You are not the woman whom 
Egerton is in love with, are you?” 


ONLY ANNE 


233 


There was a very slight pause. Anne’s face 
was pale and immovable as she answered him. 

“No; I am not,” she said quietly. 

Eric gave a sigh almost of relief. He did 
not even detect that touch of unimaginable bit- 
terness in her words, born of the firm behef 
that, in spite of all his protestations to the con- 
trary, Anthony had never loved her. She had 
only been to him a poor second-best — a fruit 
within reach. 

It was impossible to be offended with Eric. 

“I am horribly rude and inquisitive,” he 
went on; “you must forgive me. And of 
course it is no business of mine. I am really 
a barbarian, but for the last four years I have 
hardly ever been inside any one’s drawing- 
room, and then never at all willingly! But we 
all know there is a woman in Egerton’s life and 
that something is keeping them apart. God 
knows what it may be, but he will never settle 
down, I am convinced, until he marries her. I 
have sometimes thought she does not care for 
him; yet it is impossible to believe that any 
woman could be indifferent to Egertonl” 

Anne was very silent. His speech moved her 
almost to tears. But in her calm face Eric 
Brettingham could read nothing. 

“You do not know anything about it, I sup- 


234 


ONLY ANNE 


pose?” he went on earnestly. “But perhaps, 
even if you did, you would not tell me ? Eger- 
ton is a great man now, but he would be far, 
far greater if he could have his heart’s desire!” 

“How should I know?” cried Anne sharply. 
“You see, he and I have only known each 
other quite a short time. We met for the first 
time last spring. It is extraordinary that you 
should speak of him in this way 1 How should 
I know anything of his — his private affairs?” 

“Because you are positively the first woman 
I have ever met who knew him,” said Eric; 
“but, of course, if you only met him last spring, 
you can not know a great deal about 
him.” 

“What sort of a time do you think his wife 
would have — if she cared at all about him?” 
said Anne, a little recklessly; “he is never in 
England for more than three months at a time. 
He is a wanderer; he is never happy, I have 
heard, unless he is away on some expedition. 
You should think of the woman a little, too.” 

“He will settle down,” said Eric; “he is not 
really a gipsy at heart. He — like all the rest 
of us. Miss Travers — would love his own 
foyer. Women do not always realize what it 
really means to a man! And Egerton is sick 
of success; he has had enough of that. He 


ONLY ANNE 


235 


wants happiness of the kind that a wife and 
children can give him.” 

“How do you know?” she said. 

“I understand his mind, and the change that 
has come over him during the last year or two ; 
in' fact, ever since he was knighted and people 
began to boom him and make a fuss about him. 
He hated the fuss, but there were other things 
that made him long to turn his face from the 
world and go back into the wilderness. He 
was never so careless — so reckless about him- 
self — as on that expedition we made together 
about two years ago. One could see he had 
something on his mind, something he was try- 
ing to forget. He is an enigma in some ways, 
although in others he is as easy to read as a 
child. I do not make a hero of him as some of 
his men do; I know him too well, though he 
has never shown an intimate side to me. I can 
see the weakness as well as the strength of his 
character. And he wants something that he 
can not have, and it is wearing him out. He 
works now, not because he loves it, as he used 
to, but because he wants to forget!” 

“Yes?” said Anne. 

“You have, perhaps, seen that, too,” said 
Eric; “that he is not content?” 

“Yes, I have thought that,” she said quietly. 


286 


ONLY ANNE 


At first she had resented the thought of dis- 
cussing him in this intimate manner with a 
stranger like Eric Brettingham. But now she 
had ahnost forgotten the presence of this other 
man, who was his friend and who had been for 
so long his comrade. She could only see An- 
thony’s dark face bending above hers; she 
could hear nothing but the music of his voice 
telling her that he loved her. Passionately she 
remembered each trivial detail of that scene 
which was etched so indelibly upon her mem- 
ory and upon her heart; the white fields of 
snow; the “bright, patient stars”; the endless, 
desolate song of the river flowing down toward 
the peace of the green valleys. 

“And you — you can not help me at all?” said 
Eric. 

His voice shattered her dream. 

“Help you?” she said, knitting her brows. 

“To know more,” he said. “I have often 
thought that in cases of this kind a third and 
impartial person might be of some assistance.” 

“But how?” she inquired. 

“For instance — if one knew the woman — if 
one knew what was keeping them apart. 
Sometimes such a little, little misunderstand- 
ing has separated people, a thing that could so 
easily have been put straight 1” 


ONLY ANNE 


237 


“Do you not think it must be something 
quite insurmountable?” she said. 

“You mean if she were married? I have 
sometimes thought it might have been that. 
But it must have been going on for so many 
years. Do you think a man would go on lov- 
ing a woman quite hopelessly for so long?” 

“I do not know,” she said, “but I think per- 
haps that kind of man might do so.” 

“I have often tried to imagine what she could 
be like,” he went on. “I am sure she must be 
beautiful and charming and different from all 
other women, and in all ways worthy of him, 
to have made Anthony love her like that.” 

Beautiful and charming. Yes, and in all 
ways worthy of him. Had Eric known her, he 
could hardly have given a better description of 
Myrtle. Her strange and fragile beauty rose 
up before Anne; the delicate flower-face, the 
great gray eyes with all their haunting and 
wistful beauty, as if the sad soul of her was 
looking out of those windows ; Myrtle with her 
heavy heaps of glowing hair full of warmth 
and color; Myrtle with all her tenderness and 
charm. 

Soon afterward Eric got up to go, rather to 
Anne’s relief. The conversation had disturbed 
her, had aroused so many ghosts from their 


238 


ONLY ANNE 


slumbers, and she wanted a little space to put 
them from her again. She was never to be per- 
mitted to forget Anthony and Myrtle; wher- 
ever she went she was to hear their names; 
even here in her secluded retreat she was to be 
compelled to speak of them. 

So Eric Brettingham had suspected that she 
herself might be the woman whom Anthony 
loved, and she wondered if, after all, she had 
been able to convince him to the contrary. 
Probably he attributed her desire for solitude 
to an unhappy love affair. 

The day had not fulfilled its promise, and a 
light fall of snow had begun to descend upon 
the earth, powdering the grass and path with 
its white film. She turned back to the fireside, 
and sat there for some time idly thinking. And 
she remembered her dream when from the 
darkness and obscurity she had suddenly 
plunged into a place of vivid illumination 
where Anthony and Myrtle were standing to- 
gether in the light. 


CHAPTER XVI 


‘T HAVE asked Miss Travers to come and dine 
to-night,” announced Lady Brettingham at 
breakfast a few days later. ‘T really think I 
shall send down word that she had better come 
at tea-time and spend the night here. It is 
snowing again, and I am always afraid of her 
taking cold ; she looks so delicate.” 

She had adopted quite a motherly pose to- 
ward Anne, and often exhibited a genuine con- 
cern about her health, believing that when 
women lived alone they never ate enough. She 
saw that Anne and Eric had quickly become 
friends, and the idea was not displeasing to 
her. She had no fear of an engagement being 
the outcome; the friendship seemed a very 
natural and wholesome one, and she had ob- 
served that Eric found his way to the cottage 
on most of these winter days. If it only helped 
to keep him safely at Middlecombe, she felt 
that she could overlook the dangerous possi- 
bility of his falling in love with Anne. 

And lately she had begun to think that, af- 
239 


240 


ONLY ANNE 


ter all, she should welcome the girl as a daugh- 
ter-in-law, should matters ever tend in this di- 
rection. 

'‘I do not at all like the way in which I hear 
she trudges to Mass every morning in this deep 
snow,” she continued. “I am sure it is very 
sweet and nice of her, and I do like people to 
be zealous about their religion, whatever it may 
be. But she does not look at all strong, and I 
am sure we were never intended to neglect our 
bodies. And she has no mother to look after 
her, and solitary people are often so careless 
about themselves.” 

Her only objection to Anne as a possible 
wife for Eric was based upon their difference 
of religion, and even that did not distress her 
very much. 

‘‘What beats me,” put in Sir Joshua, “is that 
a young and pretty girl like Miss Travers 
should be contented with that kind of vegetable 
existence sbe leads down here. She is used to 
London, and she must miss her friends. Bi t 
perhaps it is only a passing craze.” 

He was entirely at a loss to imagine how any 
one, being free, could possibly exchange the 
solid joys of London bricks and mortar for the 
desolate and lonely lanes around Middlecombe. 

“I am sure she must often find it very lonely 


ONLY ANNE 


241 


at the cottage on these winter evenings,” said 
his wife. “Still, when I ask her she never 
seems to mind. I always think of her as a 
person who has been partially stunned by some 
great sorrow or misfortune, and who goes 
about just as usual, hearing and seeing, and 
yet quite numb and incapable of feeling any- 
thing. Curious, though, in so young a girl. 
Mrs. Vipan, who knows Mr. Vincent Travers 
extremely well, told me that Anne is not yet 
twenty-three and she is quite comfortably off, 
and she is very intimate with Lady Chard, with 
whom she used to go everywhere when she lived 
in town. Yet she prefers to remain here, as 
it were, quite lost and apart from people.” 

Eric, who had been listening with admirably 
concealed interest to his mother’s rather dis- 
cursive speech, now looked up for the first 
time and joined in the conversation. 

“She likes a quiet life best, she tells me,” he 
said. “I think it is very sensible of her. And 
jhe reads and studies a good deal; she never 
seems lonely or dull. If you want her to come 
this afternoon, I may as well fetch her in the 
car on my way back. I am going to try and 
get in to Bath to-day; it ought not to be such 
bad going unless the snow has drifted on the 
hills.” 


242 


ONLY ANNE 


“Oh, if you fetched her between four and 
five, that would do quite well,” said his mother. 

Anne had never stayed at the Park before, 
though she had frequently lunched and dined 
there. They were all so kindly and friendly 
that she had found it quite impossible not to 
like them very much. For Elf she had, espe- 
cially, a great affection, though she sometimes 
viewed Eric’s attentions with a little alarm. 
His eager interest in all her trivial daily hap- 
penings struck her as a prelude to a still 
warmer degree of attachment. Anne was not 
in the least vain, but she had had sufficient ex- 
perience of love to recognize its preliminary 
symptoms. 

She was a little surprised to see him drive up 
in the big white car to fetch her about four 
o’clock that afternoon. His coat, with its huge 
fur collar, was thickly sprinkled with snow. 

“Are you well wrapped up?” he said. “It is 
most awfully cold and I’m in the open car. If 
you are not afraid of the cold, you might sit up 
in front with me; there is lots of room for your 
maid and the luggage at the back.” 

“Oh, I am not afraid,” said Anne, taking her 
seat in front. 

The icy wind touched her like a sharp knife, 
and stirred a faint color into her face. She 


ONLY ANNE 


243 


wore a fur coat which covered her from throat 
to feet, and a little cap of dark fur rested on 
her hair. 

“I only got as far as Nether Cross,” he said 
presently, as they went swiftly up the street; 
“I was afraid of getting snowed up if I went 
on to Bath. They told me the snow had 
drifted tremendously on the hills, and that in 
some places it was nearly six feet deep. We 
have escaped the worst of it here, but I should 
not wonder, judging from the sky, if we got it 
to-night !” 

The lodge gates were opened to admit them 
by the smiling Mrs. Mack, who, like every one 
else at Middlecombe, had convinced herself 
that the young master and Miss Travers would 
certainly make a match of it. It was now 
snowing steadily, and the wheels of the car cut 
long brown tracks, staining the smooth white 
surface of the avenue. The Park looked like 
a white wilderness under the dull, leaden- 
colored sky. Those were wild days at sea, for 
even as far inland as Middlecombe the gulls 
had sought refuge; they flew past them with 
sharp, shrill cries. 

Anne had not been out all day, and the fresh 
air revived her in spite of the bitter cold. They 
talked little on the way, for Eric was too oc- 


244 


ONLY ANNE 


cupied with the task of driving; but once he 
told her they were quite alone again; the last 
shooting party had dispersed three days 
ago. 

She found them all having tea in the big, 
cosy hall when she arrived. Sir Joshua came 
quickly forward to greet Anne, whom he liked, 
holding out both hands and declaring that she 
looked frozen, and saying how thoughtless it 
had been of Eric to fetch her in an open car. 
He was generally very much alarmed by his 
wife’s visitors and vanished at their approach, 
but she had contrived not to alarm him. Be- 
sides, he had a passion for music and he h'ked 
to hear her sing. 

It was his only artistic taste. He had never 
cared for pictures; he seldom read anything 
but the papers, and even then preferred the 
financial ones. But his first act at Middle- 
combe was to build a great music saloon and 
enrich it with a collection of beautiful and 
valuable instruments. Guests who could play 
upon any of them were always welcome. He 
had insisted that Elf — who had a real talent 
for music — should learn to play the violin, 
which she could now do with considerable skill. 
Beyond that he had never interfered with her 
education. He liked her to go to Germany 


ONLY ANNE 245 

for a couple of months every year on purpose 
to pursue her musical studies. 

Since the autumn he had engaged two pro- 
fessional musicians to live permanently at 
Middlecombe, so that he could indulge his 
taste, and on most evenings they played at in- 
tervals during dinner. This was partly be- 
cause he was bored by the shooting and hunt- 
ing talk that prevailed among his guests, con- 
versations in which he evinced not the slightest 
interest, to the despair of his wife. The din- 
ing-room was at the end of the old wing and 
there was a minstrels’ gallery above it, where 
his two musicians were concealed. 

“Well, Miss Travers,” he said, as Anne took 
the chair he had pulled up close to the fire for 
her, “I wonder this weather hasn’t driven you 
back to town.” 

“Oh, I don’t think I ever want to go back 
to town,” said Anne. “I have learned to be 
quite a country mouse. Middlecombe is much 
nicer!” 

“Well, I wish I thought so,” said Sir 
Joshua. “I know I wish myself back there 
every day! I shouldn’t at all mind being a 
clerk again on two pounds a week, as I was 
when I first married. My wife doesn’t remem- 
ber anything about that time” — he smiled in a 


246 


ONLY ANNE 


knowing way and glanced at Lady Bretting- 
ham, who suppressed a wince — “but I do, and 
I was much happier. We’d lodgings in 
Bloomsbury over a shop, and I used to go off 
to the city every day at half past eight. That 
was something like life. Eric wasn’t born 
then!” 

Lady Brettingham always disliked these 
reminiscences of less prosperous days, and Sir 
Joshua was wicked enough to indulge in them 
of malice prepense whenever he thought there 
were any guests present whom she desired to 
impress with a sense of her wealth and impor- 
tance. But she had learned to laugh at him, 
although the thought of those old days of 
struggling and penury were odious to her now. 
Not but that she had been happy, even very 
happy. She could look back almost with sur- 
prise to the day, just after Eric’s birth, when 
she had felt as if she had now nothing left to 
desire, so perfect had her contentment been. 
He had been like a little child-angel, and she 
had so earnestly hoped that he might be beau- 
tiful. 

She looked across at him now. He was sit- 
ting near Anne, rather behind her, on an old 
oak seat in the corner. She still thought him 
beautiful, for his grave face with its serene ex- 


ONLY ANNE 


247 


pression, the violet blue eyes that were now 
regarding Anne with a kind of whimsical ten- 
derness, the loose golden hair that would never 
quite lie down however much it was brushed 
and cut. And his mother wondered again if 
he was going to fall in love with Anne, who 
sat there looking so calm and unconscious. 

She hoped not, for she felt that there was 
already something in Anne’s life which had 
gone awry and was still hurting her. She had 
felt quite sure of this for some time past. 

“I hope you will sing to me after tea,” said 
Sir Joshua, who was always prone to extract 
the maximum of enjoyment from his guests, 
and he knew Anne was extremely good- 
natured on the subject. 

“You never told me that you sang,” said 
Eric suddenly; “you have never sung to me.” 

“I did not know you cared about it,” said 
Anne. 

When tea was over they all adjourned to the 
music-room, which was big and bare, with a 
very fine, highly-polished, satin-wood floor, in 
the midst of which the grand piano in its black 
ebony case looked curiously small. 

Anne joined them directly she had taken off 
her wraps, and Eric came in soon afterward. 
Sir Joshua had a curiously modern taste in 


248 


ONLY ANNE 


music for a man of his stamp. He even adored 
the modern French composers and had an en- 
thusiastic admiration for the work of Claude 
Debussy and his school. The accompanist 
came, and Anne delighted her host with her 
rendering of La Mort des Amants. She then 
sang one of Melisande’s songs from Pelleas. 
But as she returned to her seat by the fire Eric 
came across the room and quoted softly in so 
low a tone that no one else could hear : 

dirait que ta voioo a passe sur la mer au 
printempsr 

Elf had begun to play, and under cover of 
this Eric said to Anne: 

“Have you ever heard Egerton sing, Miss 
Travers? He used to sing a great deal one 
summer when he was with us in Scotland. He 
is one of the finest amateurs I have ever heard.” 

“Yes, I have heard him sing,” said Anne. 

Even now she could hear, beating across the 
long space of time and distance that so divided 
them, that magical and alluring sound. She 
could see Myrtle bending down toward the fire 
so that something of the crimson tones of its 
hot flame touched her hair; her face was half 
concealed by her slim hands, but when she 
looked up her eyes were sad — so sad ! 

Anne remembered it was at that very mo- 


ONLY ANNE 


249 


merit that she herself had become intuitively 
aware that Myrtle had learned to care for An- 
thony only when it was too late. And the 
knowledge had come to her with a stab as of 
immortal pain. More than anything else it 
was this which had made her come to her final 
decision to effect her escape, and afterward, 
when this had proved so futile and unavailing, 
had made her strong enough to send him away. 

She could visualize Myrtle so distinctly that 
she seemed to be actually sitting near her, with 
that gay brilliancy, that fitful waywardness, 
those tender and soft ways of hers; her grace 
and charm, as of a soul that has always re- 
mained untouched by ugly and exterior things. 
Nothing had really been too great a sacrifice 
for Anne when she could thus think of Myrtle, 
and realize the tenderness and pity and love 
which she was so capable of evoking. It was, 
perhaps, well that Anthony had gone back to 
his old strenuous, active life spent in the ser- 
vice of the Empire. And if his strong fingers 
plucked sometimes at the strings of a shat- 
tered lute, his voice, at least, had never fal- 
tered. 


CHAPTER XVII 


All through the night the snowstorm con- 
tinued with such violence that by morning the 
whole Park was covered with a deep mantle 
two or three feet thick. Lady Brettingham 
refused to allow Anne to return home and set 
forth quite a number of kind, plausible reasons 
why she had far better remain at the Park. 

“It will be horrible being snowed up alone 
at the cottage, and if we are all going to be 
cut off from food supplies, it will be far nicer 
to starve in company. And my husband does 
enjoy your singing, and then your being here 
makes it so much more cheerful for Eric and 
Elf,” she said, in her motherly way. “I do 
hope you won’t insist upon leaving us!” 

Anne had also rather dreaded the prospect 
of being snowed up within her own four walls, 
and did not require a great deal of persuasion 
to be induced to remain in the snug and luxuri- 
ous comfort of Middlecombe Park. She spent 
several days there and found that the time 
passed very quickly and pleasantly. She 
hardly went out of doors at all, as she always 
disliked the cold intensely. Eric and Elf, how- 
250 


ONLY ANNE 


251 


ever, spent a good deal of time tobogganing 
in the Park, and seemed disappointed when 
she refused to join them. 

“You aren’t really a proper country mouse,” 
said Elf, with a sniff; “you still think about 
weather and getting wet and cold!” 

“I do not agree with you. Elf,” said Eric 
cahnly; “my first impression of Miss Travers 
was as of some curious amphibious animal — a 
water-rat that had had too much water for 
choice!” 

They both laughed at the remembrance of 
Anne’s luckless plight. 

After dinner they generally played bridge 
until bedtime. Sir Joshua liked them to come 
and play in his study while he snoozed over 
the newspaper. If was in this room that his 
two tape-machines were fixed ; they prevented 
him from feeling dull, he affirmed. He liked 
to know the prices of stocks and shares, and to 
hear what was happening in the outside world. 

The card-table was placed at the other end 
of the room, where there was a second fire- 
place. Heavy silver candlesticks were fixed to 
each of the four corners of the table, and the 
shining packs of cards made two pale little 
oases on the green surface. 

Lady Brettingham was an extremely keen 


252 


ONLY ANNE 


but indifferent player, constantly exciting her 
daughter’s wrath during the game. Eric and 
Anne were partners; they seemed to hold all 
the cards, and their luck that night was phe- 
nomenal. Anne was in one of her brightest, 
gayest moods; the change from her months of 
solitude had been very beneficial; she felt quite 
light-hearted, and looked almost as 3^oung as 
Elf in her very simple white dress with its bor- 
dering of dark fur. 

At intervals a footman came almost noise- 
lessly into the room and took the long slips 
from the tape-machine and pinned them onto a 
green board. One of the machines, which was 
now silent, was devoted exclusivelj" to the lat- 
est quotations from the city; the other recorded 
foreign telegrams, miscellaneous news, and 
weather reports. 

‘‘I do believe those dreadful things have 
stopped at last,” said Eric, glancing toward 
them; “they haven’t ticked for about an hour. 
Let’s hope they are out of order.” 

He had hardly spoken when the ticking be- 
came violently audible across the silence of the 
room. 

Anne was dealing, and Eric had just laid 
down the dummy hand. Lady Brettingham 
and Elf were deeply engrossed in the game. 


ONLY ANNE 


253 


Sir Joshua lay slumbering in his armchair, 
having dropped the paper upon the floor at his 
feet. Eric rose and went across to the 
machine. 

He knew that only a telegram of some im- 
portance would come at this comparatively 
late hour. And while he stood there reading it 
he felt as if he had had some strong premoni- 
tion as to what its nature would be. He 
seemed to be staring at it, like a man suddenly 
dazed and bewildered by a flash of lightning. 

Eric never forgot that moment. At first he 
was unable to realize it; he felt like one in a 
dream as he stood there, staring stupidly at the 
fatal message, printed in such crooked, irregu- 
lar type. Having delivered itself of its hideous 
information, the ticking abruptly ceased, leav- 
ing a silence that was scarcely less sinister and 
nerve-destroying. Eric had let an ill-sup- 
pressed exclamation of dismay escape him, but 
happily no one had noticed it; they were all 
far too much intent upon the game. 

Then he looked across at Anne Travers. 
That remembrance of her was impressed ever- 
lastingly upon his memory. He saw her bright 
and happy face bending above the cards that 
lay in an extended line before her. Her dark 
eyes were glowing; she was immensely preoc- 


254 


ONLY ANNE 


cupied with the playing of the hand. He no- 
ticed, too, the flash of rings on her little fingers 
as she moved the cards with such deliberate 
decision. She made him think involuntarily of 
the lines of Rossetti’s poem : 

“what be her cards, you ask? even these 
The heart that doth but crave 
More having fed, the diamond 

Skilled to make base seem brave ; 

The club for smiting in the dark. 

The spade to dig a grave’’. 

The spade to dig a grave, A grave forgot- 
ten and forlorn, new made, perhaps, and dug in 
some far-off place, behind the very hills of 
death. He seemed to see it lying in the lonely 
fastness of some far-off forest, a nameless, un- 
honored mound. 

“Any news, Eric?” said Sir Joshua, sleepily 
opening one eye. 

Eric answered almost nonchalantly: 

“The steamers had a bad passage across the 
Channel owing to the severity of the gale.” 

Why he said this he never knew, any more 
than he could tell why he had not read aloud 
for all to hear those words that beat so dully, 
so persistently, upon his own brain : 

‘'A telegram from Mombasa records the 
death reported by native carriers of Sir An- 


ONLY ANNE 


255 


thony Egerton, the African explorer, who left 
this town some months ago accompanied hy 
Major Graham and a sti'ong escort. No of- 
ficial confirmation of this intelligence has as 
yet been received at the Colonial Office/' 

He looked across at Anne. 

Had she loved this man? She had told him 
once that he did not love her ; that she was not 
the woman to whom he had for so long given 
his heart; yet he had believed once or twice 
that she was not altogether indifferent to him. 

Now that he himself loved her, now that he 
knew he wished to marry her, he had felt more 
than ever jealously uncertain upon the point. 
He had watched her kindling eyes, her flushed 
face; had noticed her nervous manner when she 
spoke of Egerton. He believed that he had 
surprised her secret through his own. Some- 
times he had been almost certain that Anne 
loved this man, and that for some reason 
known only to herself she had refused to marry 
him. And he felt, too, that she was in posses- 
sion of that great and intimate secret which 
had dominated Egerton’s life and made him 
discontented with the prizes he had won be- 
cause those he desired most passionately had 
been withholden from him by destiny. 

Eric did not want to tell her. He would 


256 


ONLY ANNE 


have liked to tear that long slip of paper and 
fling it into the Are so that she should never 
read the words that were printed upon it. And 
she must not know. Not here — not like this. 
If she were to know at all, some one must break 
it to her very gently. But he did not want to 
tell her himself. He was afraid that she might 
reveal something of her own feeling for An- 
thony, and Eric dreaded to have his suspicions 
confirmed. 

As he stood there he began to realize for the 
first time the overwhelming love he felt for 
Anne. It seemed as if he had loved her from 
the moment when he had first seen her lying, 
terrified and wet through, in the fog on the 
Craddon road. She was his “all the world.” 
And he could not hurt her. And to-night she 
was more than ever beautiful in that gay, 
laughing, happy mood of hers. 

“I have made a grand slam, Mr. Bretting- 
ham,” she said; “that is our game and rubber.” 

Eric came rather slowly across the room to 
the card-table. 

He did not say anything. He looked idly 
at the little heaps of pink-backed cards lying 
on the table before her, and then watched her 
as she added up the score. 

“I am ruined,” said Elf, “but it was all 


ONLY ANNE 


257 


mother’s fault, so she must pay my losses. I 
shall never play against Eric and Miss Trav- 
ers again.” 

Oh, it was monstrous, unnatural, that they 
should be saying these things — such trivial, 
foolish things — when Anthony, who mattered 
so much both to himself and Anne, should be 
lying dead. He felt an absurd, insensate fury 
against that machine that had ticked out with 
such deadly precision and complete, callous in- 
difference the news of that appalling disaster. 

telegram from Mombasa records the 
death reported by native carriers/^ 

No one must read it. No one must know. 
He gathered up the cards almost impatiently. 

“You do not want to play any more, do you. 
Miss Travers? And I am sure Elf ought to 
be in bed after all that tobogganing.” 

If he could only get them all out of the room 
before any one took it into his head to go and 
read that telegram. 

Lady Brettingham rose. 

“I suppose it is bedtime,” she said. 

Eric followed them into the hall. He gave a 
sigh of relief. For the moment danger was 
past. And, after all, it was only a supposition 
of his that Anne had cared for Egerton, al- 
though he had persisted in retaining the im- 


258 


ONLY ANNE 


pression despite her firm denial. But he could 
not tell her that he was dead. If she really had 
a secret love for him, surely this news would 
stab her into instant self -betrayal. And he did 
not wish to know for certain that she loved an- 
other man ; he loved her too passionately. 

Now they were safely on the stairs on the 
way to their rooms — his mother and Elf and 
Anne. His relief was enormous. 

But just as they were about to turn down 
the long corridor an idea occurred to him. 

“Miss Travers,” he said, “I am sure it is 
thawing to-night, and if you would like me to 
drive you down to church I will order the 
motor at half past seven.” 

“Oh, I should like that very much, thank 
you,” said Anne. “I was afraid the snow 
might be too deep.” 

“But, my dear Miss Travers, it isn’t Sunday, 
and I am sure a long morning in bed would do 
you a great deal of good,” said Lady Bretting- 
ham, who had a perfect horror of early rising. 
“Do let me send up your breakfast.” 

“Oh, I am not tired, and I should like to go 
so much, if it is not too much trouble,” said 
Anne. 

“Very well,” called Eric; “mind you are in 
good time.” He went back into the study. 


ONLY ANNE 


259 


But it struck Anne that that last glimpse of 
Eric had shown his face to be rather strange 
and white, as if he had just sustained a blow. 
He had looked disturbed and upset about 
something. The room had been too hot, per- 
haps ; he had not seemed particularly interested 
in the result of the game ; she had felt hurt that 
he had not shared in her little triumph. 

‘T do hope you will not take cold,” said 
Lady Brettingham; “you must be sure and 
wrap up well, and I hope that silly son of mine 
will order the closed car.” 

In the night there was a fierce storm, and 
Anne, lying awake and listening to that tem- 
pestuous wind, wondered if Eric woidd still 
expect her to be ready at half past seven. She 
did not sleep very well, and when Clotilde came 
to call her she felt rather disinclined to stir. 

Clotilde, however, told her that the car had 
been ordered and that no message had been 
sent to countermand it. She therefore rose 
and dressed, and at about half past seven went 
down into the hall. 

Eric was sitting near the fire; he looked 
rather blue and chilled with cold. He rose 
and came toward her, and she saw that he 
seemed very weary and haggard. Perhaps he, 
too, had been kept awake by that fierce wind. 


260 


ONLY ANNE 


His own grief was great, but at that moment 
his thoughts were full of a most poignant pity 
for Anne, who was approaching him so un- 
consciously. 

“I hope you are well wrapped up,” he said. 

“Yes, thank you,” she said. She wondered 
what was the matter with him. In silence she 
followed him across the hall. 

“I am afraid it will be rather bad going,” he 
said; “there has been a bit of a frost on the top 
of the thaw, and now it is snowing again.” 

Large, almost solid snowflakes were falling 
steadily. The Park waS“>wrapped anew in a 
white, unsullied sheet. They drove down to 
the village in silence. To Anne’s surprise, 
Eric had ordered the smaller car; it was the 
swifter of the two he possessed, but the only 
shelter was alforded by a hood, and as they 
went down the drive the snow blew in upon 
her. 

It had been his own suggestion that she 
should come, yet she felt strongly that some- 
thing had displeased him. She did not dare 
question him; his rather curt manner seemed 
to prohibit interrogation. 

Rather to her surprise, when she entered the 
church, Eric followed her, and knelt down a 
few benches behind her. He did not stir until 


ONLY ANNE 


261 


Mass was over and the priest had left the 
church. Now had come the moment which 
he had lain awake dreading all night. 

Outside the day was just beginning to grow 
light. In the eastern sky there was a wedge of 
rather lurid, saffron-colored light. Eric 
paused for a moment in the porch. 

“Would you like to go and have some coffee 
at the cottage?” he said. 

“Yes — if you will come,” she said; “only 
Jael does not expect me. She will take a little 
time to get it ready.” 

She got into the ^.ar and Eric sprang in be- 
side her. He drove swiftly to the cottage. 
There was still something mysterious in his 
manner. Anne felt quite certain by this time 
that something had either annoyed or grieved 
him. She had never seen him in such a somber 
mood before. 

Coffee was brought, and when they had both 
had some she turned boldly to him. 

“Now won’t you tell me what is the matter?” 
she asked. “Has anything happened?” 

“Yes,” he said, “something has happened. I 
didn’t want to tell you. I have been putting it 
off. I hadn’t the courage. But you will have 
to know ” 

“You have had bad news?” She turned 


262 


ONLY ANNE 


very pale. In that moment her mind flew most 
swiftly to the truth. That was the only bad 
news that Eric could conceivably have to tell 
her. He knew nothing of Myrtle — what, 
therefore, he had to tell her must concern An- 
thony. She looked up pitifully. 

“Please tell me,” she said. 

“It is about Egerton,” he said'; “there is a 
report that he is dead. There is no official con- 
firmation of the news. I knew about it last 
night — it was that late message that was ticked 
out on the machine. I am going up to town 
to see if I can hear any more. I told my 
mother about it last night. I told her that I 
thought you knew some of Egerton’s friends, 
and that you might wish to come with me. 
You have time to collect a few things.” He 
consulted his watch. “When we get to town 
we may find that other news is to hand.” He 
went on speaking in a dull, mechanical way. 
He did not dare look at Anne. 

Anne felt as if she were being the unwilling 
spectator of some tragedy which she could not 
understand or realize, and which, yet, con- 
cerned her vitally, although she remained a de- 
tached, impersonal witness. 

“You were right,” she said; “there is some 
one I must go and see. Some one who 


ONLY ANNE 263 

knew him. I should like to go to town with 
you.’’ 

Within her heart a voice seemed to be say- 
ing with fierce insistence: "'You must go to 
Myrtle now. If she ever wanted you, she will 
want you now,^' 

They went back after a brief delay into that 
strange, white, silent snow-world. It seemed 
to her as if the great silence and peace of it be- 
longed inalienably to Anthony. The very hour 
was his. Yes — and she might have been his 
wife. She might have had the right to mourn 
for him. She had loved him, and had he not 
told her, amid snows as white and still as these, 
that he loved her? 

Her thoughts were chaotic; she could not 
bring them into shape and order. She was ut- 
terly bewildered. Eric did not look at her dur- 
ing that long drive to Nether Cross, and if he 
had done so, he would have seen nothing of her 
face but those dark, burning eyes shining 
through the thick veil she had tied over her fur 
cap. She was heavily muffled in thick furs, 
and she wondered why, in spite of them, she 
felt so mortally cold. 

The wind and snow whirled about them 
down all the length of that desolate road. The 
great white, distorted-looking hedges and trees 


264 


ONLY ANNE 


showed scarcely a fragment of their umber- 
colored twigs. Everywhere the snow gave a 
swollen, exaggerated look to the landscape 
through which they passed. 

Anne sat very still. She had the feeling that 
a great change had come over the whole world. 
Instead of being white — softly, ethereally 
white — she felt that it ought to have been heav- 
ily draped in black, because Anthony was dead. 
It was as if an earthquake had suddenly passed 
over a smiling summer scene, and ruined it so 
utterly that it had become quite unrecogniz- 
able. The stillness began to mean peace no 
longer. It was the silence of awed despair, the 
hush of the valley of the shadow of death 
through which Anthony had passed in the ze- 
nith of his splendid manhood. For these ruins 
there was no remedy — no possibility of rebuild- 
ing. And she loved him. All these months she 
had put the thought of him resolutely from 
her. He could only have been hers at the im- 
mense cost of another person’s happiness, and 
that person was the woman she loved better 
than herself, to whom she had been tenderly 
devoted from her childhood’s years. She had 
renounced the greater love because this lesser 
one held her so fast. And now the man was 
dead — this man who could never belong to 


ONLY ANNE 


265 


either of them. And she was going back to 
Myrtle after these months of cold estrange- 
ment. She did not know how Myrtle would re- 
ceive her, but the desire to be with her now tri- 
umphed over all personal questions. If Myr- 
tle did not need her, she could but go away 
again. 

The bitter, icy coldness of the wind as it blew 
in great gusts over those frozen fields of deep 
snow produced in her a strange physical tor- 
por; she felt almost as if she could have gone to 
sleep, hushed by the rhythmic throbbing of the 
car. She did not wish to rouse herself; she 
knew when she came to full consciousness that 
nothing but pain — immortal, everlasting pain 
— awaited her. She dared not think nor try 
to understand. Something seemed to be touch- 
ing her nerves with a touch as of steel and ice, 
chilling and wounding her. She could not face 
that one grim fact, and say to herself : ""An- 
thony is dead — he will never come back — you 
will never hear him say again that he loves you. 
He is dead. Your miserable little sacrifice was 
all in vainr 

Then she found herself almost mechanically 
praying for him — praying for the repose of 
that fine and beautiful soul. But the words of 
the De Profundis psalm, so inalienably asso- 


266 


ONLY ANNE 


dated for all Catholics with their beloved dead, 
refused to come to her lips. She began the 
first verse over and over again, and halted, re- 
membering no more. She tried to concentrate 
her mind upon it, and the effort hurt her. She 
was accustomed to say it regularly morning 
and evening — why did it fail her now? 
profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, ex- 
audi vocem me am!' She could get no further. 
She was too cold to pray: her brain and heart 
were frozen. And Anthony was dead. 

The whole country was very quiet ; the snow 
seemed to hush all sounds. The fields had an 
almost eerie look, and Anne scarcely recog- 
nized familiar places. At one point they made 
but slow progress, for the snow was very deep 
and they nearly ran into a drift. But Eric set 
his teeth and drove on, strong, competent, skill- 
ful. There was no trace of emotion in his face. 
His eyes gazed straight ahead, as if all his 
thoughts were concentrated upon reaching 
Nether Cross in time to catch the up-express. 

All the way they never spoke to each other. 
It was one of those strange, intimate silences — 
so much more intimate than any words could 
be. Both knew that the other’s thoughts were 
occupied almost exclusively with the man who 
had died so recently, the news of whose death 


ONLY ANNE 


267 


had just reached them. So strong was this 
knowledge that it was almost as if his presence 
were actually with them, accompanying them 
on their journey. His voice sounded across 
that utter stillness — the voice that death had 
silenced forever. 

It was nearly ten o’clock before they reached 
Nether Cross station. There were no other 
passengers waiting on the platform; it was not 
a day on which people would travel unless it 
were absolutely necessary. Eric looked at his 
watch. “We have ten minutes to spare,” he 
said, “but the train is sure to be late to-day.” 
He took Anne into the waiting-room and made 
her sit near the fire, covering her knees with a 
heavy fur rug. She looked chilled and frozen, 
but very calm. If the news had brought her 
grief, it had numbed her. He would have 
given worlds then to know what was in her 
heart. 

It seemed to Anne as if they had been wait- 
ing for many hours when Eric came to tell her 
that the train was signaled. In reality it was 
little more than half an hour late. She and 
Eric traveled alone together. The compart- 
ment was heated, but he had had foot-warmers 
brought for her. Once he gave her something 
hot and sweet from a flask to drink. It revived 
her, sending something of its warmth through 


268 


ONLY ANNE 


her body, almost as if she had swallowed fire. 
She remembered afterward how solicitous he 
had been, all through that journey, for her 
physical comfort. Yet he had done it all in a 
quiet, self-effacing way, just as if she had been 
his sister. She made him think of Melisande, 
whose song she had sung only the other day; 
Melisande, who had a like inability to realize 
her own anguish, who had only felt that physi- 
cal shrinking: am afraid of the cold, . . . 

Ah, I am afraid of the great cold. . . 

Anthony’s death had shattered many of 
Eric’s own hopes; he had been his companion 
in many and many a lonely place, had faced 
hardship, privation, and danger with him. But 
in that hour his thoughts were almost ex- 
clusively centered upon Anne. His chief con- 
cern was for her. He seemed to have no 
thoughts to spare for himself — his own loss, his 
own grief. . . . 

Yet the old problem teased him, provoking 
him to constant conjecture. Had she loved An- 
thony ? What had been the nature of the friend- 
ship? She was going, she had said, to friends of 
Anthony’s. Who were they? And was one of 
them the mysterious woman who for so long 
had held Anthony in the hollow of her hand? 

Anne still kept silence ; she only spoke some- 
times to thank him when he arranged the rugs 


ONLY ANNE 


269 


or moved the foot -warmers. Yet, watching 
her, his heart ached with poignant compassion. 

When the train stopped at Paddington sta- 
tion it was already dark ; the short winter after- 
noon had waned into premature night. Eric 
drove to Anne’s flat with her, and left her 
there. 

“I shall come in this evening, if you will let 
me, and see how you are. I hope you have not 
taken cold. And if there is any news I will let 
you know at once.” 

She held out her hand to him; the touch of 
her cold, stiff little Angers chilled him. 

“Good-by, and thank you,” she said very 
quietly. 

“Good-by,” said Eric. 

But as he turned away she called him back. 

“Mr. Brettingham !” 

“Yes?” He moved a step toward her. 

“You will be sure and let me know at once 
if you hear anything more, will you not?” She 
was thinking of Myrtle. “It is so important.” 

“You shall hear at once,” he said. 

That immense self-control of hers baffled 
him. She was thinking, perhaps, of the one 
whom she had ccane up to see; he guessed 
rightly that it must indeed be no other than 
the woman whom Anthony had loved from the 
days of his struggling youth. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


It was about five o’clock when Anne drove up 
to Lord Chard’s house in Brook Street. Now 
that she was about to fulfill her purpose a 
strange nervousness that was almost fear seized 
her. Remembering their last interview, and 
the subsequent cold and heavy and impene- 
trable silence which had of late months divided 
them so utterly, she dreaded the approaching 
meeting. When the taxi stopped she scarcely 
had the courage to get out and ring the bell. 
How would Myrtle receive her? What would 
she say? Perhaps she did not wish to see her. 
It was a cold and trembling and frightened 
Anne who now stood upon that once so familiar 
doorstep, feeling for the first time in her life 
uncertain as to the nature of her welcome. 

A fog had now descended upon the city. 
Heaps of snow, muddy and discolored, had 
been swept to the sides of the street and lay 
there like soiled mounds. There were very few 
people about. London seemed almost as un- 
tenanted as those frozen white hills and valleys 
of Somersetshire. 


270 


ONLY ANNE 


271 


The door was quickly opened in response to 
her timid ring. Yes, her ladyship was at home, 
the man said; she had only arrived back that 
day from Chardford, and had given orders that 
she would not see any one. But he knew Anne 
well by sight; knew, too, that she had always 
been an intimate and privileged visitor, and 
said that he would go and tell her ladyship that 
she had come. 

So Anne once more entered Myrtle’s house. 
It struck her afresh as being so singularly rem- 
iniscent of Myrtle herself ; it was so fresh and 
fragrant and dainty. In the big square hall 
with its dark panels of oak and big family por- 
traits — men and w^omen with sad and wistful 
faces dressed in the bygone garb of other gen- 
erations — there were masses of sweet-scented 
flowers, violets, freesias, narcissi, and pink 
roses on long, slender stalks. Hyacinths and 
lilies-of-the-valley and azaleas were massed in 
great jars of fine china, and filled the place 
with fragrance. 

The electric light illuminated the old por- 
traits in such a manner that smiles seemed to 
flicker on those painted faces, the grim ones 
of the men, the sweet and rather sensitive ones 
of the women and children. 

Anne waited there for several minutes in 


272 


ONLY ANNE 


acute suspense, until the man returned saying 
that Lady Chard would see her. He con- 
ducted her upstairs to Myrtle’s sitting-room, 
where in the past they had spent so many 
happy and tranquil hours together. She fol- 
lowed him up the long flight of marble stairs, 
and through the gallery that was hung with 
pictures. At the far end there was the por- 
trait of Myrtle, which Sargent had painted — 
Myrtle, looking all fire and nerves and tem- 
perament, with her slim, long hands clasped 
over a fan. He had slightly exaggerated the 
gracile length of her slender figure. She looked 
in it an aloof, detached personality, careless of 
a world that had given her so much pain, not 
one whom deep sorrow could touch, but eager 
and ardent and hopeful. 

Myrtle’s room was as bright and filled with 
flowers as the hall had been. A big log-fire 
blazed on the hearth, and the curtains were 
drawn, and shut out the murky fog that had 
descended upon London. Anne had not waited 
there very long before the door opened and 
Myrtle came into the room. 

She was wearing a traveling dress of dark 
blue serge, which seemed to add to her height 
and slenderness. She was very pale, and her 
hair made a conspicuous patch of color in the 


ONLY ANNE 273 

firelit room. She looked as if she also had just 
returned from a journey. 

‘‘So you’ve come, Nancy,” she said in a very 
quiet, cold voice, and she bent down and kissed 
Anne on both cheeks. 

“Yes — directly I could,” said Anne. 

“I am only just back myself. I was obliged 
to go down to Chardford; there has been a fuss 
with some of our people, and I had to go and 
inquire into it. It was all the agent’s fault, 
of course; I dislike him more than ever — ^but 
Pat trusts him implicitly!” 

It seemed so strange to Anne to hear her 
speak of indifferent, impersonal things with 
such calmness. She almost began to wonder 
if Myrtle had heard the news. 

But her next words dispelled this doubt. 

“I only saw the papers when I got to Bristol. 
They had been delayed by the snow. I suppose 
it is really quite true?” 

Her eyes were fixed upon Anne with a hard, 
bright scrutiny. 

“I have not heard anything more except that 
first telegram,” said Anne, “but I came up 
with Mr. Brettingham, who has several times 
accompanied him on expeditions, and he has 
gone now to make inquiries. He promised to 
let me know.” 


274 


ONLY ANNE 


Myrtle moved restlessly about the room, 
touching the flowers that stood in the vases, 
taking one out here and there and then re- 
placing it in an idle, preoccupied manner. 

“How did you hear so quickly?” she said. 
“You must get news with extraordinary facil- 
ity at Middlecombe.” 

“The Brettinghams have a tape-machine. I 
was staying there — and the message came late 
last night. I did not know, however, until this 
morning. Mr. Brettingham was coming to 
town, and he offered to take me to the station.” 

“I was sure you would come, Nancy, but I 
didn’t expect you till to-morrow,” said Myrtle, 
and she lightly touched Anne’s hand with hers. 
“And if you had not I think I should have been 
selfish enough to send for you.” She paused 
a moment. “I have only seen Pat for a mo- 
ment; he isn’t well and he has been sleeping 
this afternoon. But he never likes my being 
away, and when I come back he is always very 
irritable, and seems to have stored up so many 
complaints of every one, and then I have to 
pour oil on the troubled waters; they are un- 
usually troubled to-day, of course! Perhaps 
you will go in and see him for a little when you 
have had some tea. I am sure you must want 
some tea after that long, cold journey. And 


ONLY ANNE 


275 


then you must tell him that I am tired and have 
gone to take a little rest. Try and keep him 
amused for an hour or two; you can always do 
that, I know. I want an hour in which to lay 
this ghost! It is all rather horrible, isn’t it? 
You would help me enormously if you would 
do this. I have been simply dreading this 
evening.” 

Anne said quietly: 

“Of course I will. Myrtle, dear.” 

She was afraid that if she offered a single 
word of compassion Myrtle’s strange, con- 
trolled calm would break down. And was it 
not a little service that she now asked of Anne ? 
An hour in which to lay the ghost of this long 
and passionate and frustrated love! She could 
have laughed aloud. 

Tea was brought. Anne drank hers hastily ; 
its warmth revived her. She felt less frozen, 
less numbed. 

“Shall I go to Pat now. Myrtle?” she said, 
rising from her seat near the fire. 

“Yes, do, please, dear,” said Myrtle; “you 
will find him in the yellow drawing-room; he 
always sits there now. He says he likes to 
watch the things go by in the street. It is most 
horribly noisy, but there is no accounting for 
tastes.” 


276 


ONLY ANNE 


Anne passed back down the long gallery 
and entered the big front room. Myrtle came 
with her to the door. 

“Pat,” she said, “Nancy has come, and she is 
quite penitent for being such a truant all these 
months, so you must blame the superior attrac- 
tions of Middlecombe for her long defection. 
But she is evidently sick of it at last. I am 
going to leave her with you now to have a 
gossip !” 

Her voice, full of its accustomed light irony, 
held not a trace of emotion. It was quite 
steady and quite clear. 

Anne went quickly across to the sofa, which 
was drawn up by the fire. To-day the window 
offered no attractions to the invalid, and the 
fog was shut out by heavy curtains of yellow 
damask. 

“I am glad to see you again. Mouse,” said 
Lord Chard, holding out a hand so thin it 
looked like a claw. “I haven’t seen a soul for 
the past week, and now Myrtle has been away 
for three interminable days. It was so utterly 
unnecessary, too, for her to go down to Chard- 
ford, for she knows how implicitly I trust my 
agent ! I can not imagine what she could have 
found to do down there to occupy her for three 
days. Thompson looks after the place far 


ONLY ANNE 


277 


better than I could myself. Those yokels are 
a discontented, socialistic lot, and he is quite 
right not to pay any attention to their insen- 
sate grumbling. Then Myrtle goes down and 
sympathizes with them and makes everything 
ten times worse ! However, it gave her a good 
excuse to take a few days’ holiday. I am sure 
that the hideous cold and the snow were the 
only reasons for bringing her back so soon. 
And now she has come back she looks exactly 
like a sick doll!” 

Anne sat down by his side. Yes — he was a 
good deal changed even in the last few months. 
He was terribly emaciated, and although he 
was now but little over forty, he looked quite 
ten years older. He had won success early in 
life ; his career had been one of those brief and 
brilliant ones such as frequently mark the man 
who is doomed to die in his prime, as if the 
whole range of effort and success strove to be 
condensed into a few years instead of being 
spread over a long lifetime. He had a thin, 
hawk-like, hungry face, with keen, haggard 
eyes, and gray hair that had once been jet- 
black. His expression was fretful and per- 
manently discontented ; his manner the irritable 
one of the chronic invalid whose whole soul is 
in revolt against the bitterness of his lot. 


278 


ONLY ANNE 


There was, indeed, something sinister now 
about his appearance which had robbed him 
of all his early claim to physical beauty and 
charm — a macabre death-in-life look that made 
him at times quite repellent. 

Already, had she known it, he had touched 
the zenith of his public career before he married 
Myrtle, and was on that downward path, swift 
and easy as the hill sloping to Avernus, which 
so often awaits the man or woman who, con- 
summately gifted with brilliant intellectual 
capacity, possesses a character lacking in bal- 
ance and stability. He was already a potential 
ruin ; pain and allaying drugs were making of 
him a physical wreck. A stronger woman who 
had loved him might have saved him. But he 
had known always with a quick, fine instinct 
that Myrtle did not love him. What he did 
not know what that she had deliberately re- 
nounced the man she did love in order to make 
an ambitious marriage. He adored her, and 
now he had molded her to his will — always so 
much stronger than her own. Her devotion to 
him was in some measure due to her desire of 
expiating the wrong she had done when she had 
sent Anthony away, and married him. It had 
since seemed to her that she had thus ruined 
three lives. 


ONLY ANNE 


279 


At Elsham in the summer she had come face 
to face with the almost certain knowledge that 
Anthony had recovered from her perfidy and 
intended to marry Anne. Why else should 
they have met thus, so mysteriously, in Switzer- 
land? Their meeting had been disclosed to her 
quite accidentally. They had evidently in- 
tended to keep it from her. Neither of them 
had ever mentioned the episode to her. Hurt 
and angry, she had quarreled with Anne and 
left Middlecombe. And now Anthony was 
dead. She could never now hope in the dim re- 
cesses of her secret heart that 

. . perhaps some night 
When new things happen, a meteor ball 
May slip through the sky in a line of light. 

And earth breathes hard and landmarks fall. 

And my waves no longer champ nor chafe. 

Since a stone will have rolled from its placed let be !” 

‘‘What on earth is the matter with Myrtle?” 
continued Lord Chard, pushing aside some 
books which had been placed near him. “She 
has hardly been near me since she came back. 
I have no patience with these women of petite 
saute! If she were really ill — ill with a hide- 
ous pain day and night — she could not make 
more fuss than she does now over a trivial 
headache. The fact is, she is bored with my 


280 


ONLY ANNE 


long illness; there is nothing else the matter 
with her. She wants to go out and enjoy her- 
self and her conscience won’t let her.” 

“I think she must have caught a chill down 
at Chardford,” said Anne, afraid that he 
might still further cross-examine her. “She 
said the cold was intense, and she had, of 
course, that long wait at Bristol.” 

“A chill? Nonsense!” said Lord Chard. 
“Myrtle is perfectly well. She is young and 
strong — she is not made of sugar!” 

“Still, she is looking very white,” said Anne 
gently. 

“Oh, you are like all the rest of the world! 
You believe that she is sacrificing herself,” he 
said with bitter irony. 

“I never know what the world believes, Pat,” 
she said, “nor do I hear what it says about my 
own friends!” 

“You must be singularly deaf, not to say 
stupid, then,” he observed drily, with an odd 
grin. 

“Couldn’t we play chess?” said Anne. “We 
have not had a contest for ages. But you will 
find me horribly out of practice.” 

‘'Chessr he said disdainfully. “What on 
earth inspired you to suggest chess ? I am per- 
fectly blind with pain this afternoon — I am 


ONLY ANNE 


281 


sure I could not tell a knight from a pawn.” 
He gave oae of his mirthless, almost shrill 
laughs. “Still, if you are set upon it, I sup- 
pose chess will do as well as anything else. It 
is less maddening than double-dummy bridge, 
and you are the worst bridge player I have 
ever seen. Still, if you could persuade Myrtle 
to join us we could play three!” 

“Oh, I would very much rather play chess,” 
said Anne; “you are quite right; I am a hope- 
less bridge player. We have had some games 
at Middlecombe when I stayed with the Bret- 
tinghams. I did not distinguish myself, unless 
I held every card in the pack!” 

She fetched the board, and they were soon 
immersed in the game. 

Lord Chard won the first game easily, and 
this put Anne on her mettle. Still very far 
from completion was the hour for which Myrtle 
had prayed. Nor did Lord Chard care for too 
easy a victory. He was a brilliant player, and 
had in the past taught Anne nearly all she 
knew of the game. He seemed to bring all his 
innate astuteness and cunning to bear upon 
the problem, and displayed gifts of resource 
which often surprised her. But on this occa- 
sion Anne was playing for a high stake of 
which he knew nothing — the securing to 


282 


ONLY ANNE 


Myrtle of that little hour for which she had 
pleaded to lay her ghost. 

The struggle proved a long one. They for- 
got the passing of time. Anne fastened her 
whole attention upon the game, which indeed 
had almost ceased to be for her a game at all. 
It was a real battle, and her object was less to 
win than to prolong it. She observed, too, that 
her opponent was permitting the time to pass 
without noticing its rapid vanishing. Anne 
seemed to be inspired with extraordinary skill, 
scarcely inferior to that displayed by Lord 
Chard. Surely it must be getting very near 
dinner-time. She had had very little to eat 
that day, and was becoming faint and weary. 
She felt alarmed, too, lest her adversary should 
suffer from exhaustion when the combat was 
over. Yet she had somehow managed to pro- 
long the contest beyond her wildest imagining. 

He won the game at length, and lying back 
on his couch closed his eyes. 

“Hadn’t you better drink this?” she said, 
handing him an egg-flip which one of his at- 
tendants had brought to him, and which he had 
refused. 

He gave a groan. “I’m faint — for God’s 
sake call Taylor. Ring that bell.” 

Anne rang a little electric bell that was at 


ONLY ANNE 


283 


hand. Taylor appeared with swift and well- 
trained noiselessness. 

“Those tabloids — my heart — ” Anne heard 
him mutter. 

She stood there irresolutely, wondering if 
she could be of any use. Lord Chard’s face 
was livid; he looked like death. The rather 
long gray hair hung limp and dank above his 
fine but wasted brow. His black eyes were 
half closed, and his breathing had become 
slightly stertorous; every breath sounded like 
a suffocating struggle. The man forced some 
brandy between his lips, and raised his head 
a little. He signaled to Anne that there 
was no cause for alarm. Still, Pat looked 
very ghastly under the searching electric 
light. Deep lines scored the livid face, and 
his long, thin, sinewy hands twitched and 
shook. 

“Perhaps her ladyship had better be told,” 
said Taylor. 

“I will fetch her,” said Anne, thankful to 
escape from the room. The sight had un- 
nerved her a little; she had not much experi- 
ence of illness, and to-day she was feeling 
utterly shaken by all she had gone through. 
So many things had been crowded into that 
brief period, barely yet twelve hours long. 


284 


ONLY ANNE 


although it seemed to her as if it must have 
been quite a hundred years since Eric had come 
to tell her of Anthony’s death. She felt as if 
she had lived a whole lifetime since he had 
driven her down to church that morning, with 
all the wild snow whirling about them. 

She hurried down the passage and entered 
Myrtle’s sitting-room. The window was open, 
and chill gusts of wind shook the half -drawn 
curtains and whirled flakes of snow into the 
room. The fog had completely cleared now, 
and the wintry weather had again set in. To 
Anne’s surprise Myrtle was still there, sitting 
in an odd, cramped attitude, as if she had not 
stirred for hours. The Are was nearly out, and 
it was bitterly cold. 

“Myrtle — dear,” said Anne gently. She 
switched on the electric light. 

Myrtle did not move. 

“Myrtle, dear,” she said again. 

“Yes?” said Myrtle, looking up. 

“Pat has had a kind of fainting fit. I had 
to ring for Taylor. He is better now. I think 
we played chess too long.” 

Myrtle got up, and going to the mirror 
rearranged her hair, smoothing it with her 
hands in an absent-minded manner. Then she 
said: 


ONLY ANNE 


285 


“I suppose I had better go to him. Will you 
ring? We will have some dinner up here. I 
am sure you would like some hot soup. I think 
it will warm me, too. I feel so dreadfully 
cold.” 

“No wonder you are cold with the window 
open like that, and the snow coming into the 
room,” said Anne, shutting the window and 
drawing the curtains. 

“Is it snowing now?” said Myrtle in sur- 
prise; “it was so foggy when I opened it I 
thought I should be suffocated ; I could hardly 
breathe. What a wind there is now! What 
time is it, Anne?” 

“It is half-past seven,” said Anne. 

Myrtle turned and looked at her. 

“How terribly emotional you are, Nancy,” 
she said in a changed tone of light mockery. 
“You ought to have lived in the mid- Victorian 
era, when such things were the fashion. You 
look quite upset. Perhaps you are sorry now 
that you used to snub Anthony so!” 

Oh, why did he still seem to be standing 
there in front of Anne, entreating her to tell 
him if the barrier that divided them should 
ever be removed ? Why did he not come now — 
when her whole heart was calling to him — 
when nothing seemed to matter any more, ex- 


286 ONLY ANNE 

cept that he should be alive and able to return 
to her?” 

“I’m sorry, Nancy,” said Myrtle, with sud- 
den penitence; ''you have been simply splen- 
did, and I mustn’t be a brute. Of course it is 
horrible even for any one who didn’t care about 
him particularly. Such a splendid, valuable 
life gone for no purpose at all ! And chess is so 
tiring, and then you have had that long jour- 
ney. No wonder you look so pinched and 
white.” 

She swept past Anne out of the room. It 
was about half an hour before she returned, 
and then they sat down to dinner. Myrtle 
drank some wine and had a little hot soup, but 
she was not able to eat anything. 

Afterward they sat before the fire, and she 
began to speak of Anthony in the hushed, 
almost reverent tones in which one speaks of 
the newly dead. 

“What a stranger he seems now,” she said. 
“One wonders from what point of view they 
look at the things of earth. Whether they 
have forgotten and if they have ceased to care 
any more.” 

Anne was silent. 

“Do you realize,” said Myrtle with bitter- 
ness, “that it has all been of no avail? I always 


ONLY ANNE 


287 


told myself that I would not even think of 
Tony, that I would harden my heart against 
him, until I might love him without shame. 
And by that time I used to think it might be 
too late, that he would have perhaps found 
some free and happy girl — a girl like yourself, 
Anne — who would have loved him and made 
him happy. You see I did refuse to marry 
him when I was young and free, and I know 
now that I did it because he was poor and I 
was dazzled by Pat’s wealth and position, and 
by the thought of making a marriage that 
would be the envy of all my friends. I was 
old enough to know that I was doing some- 
thing very wrong, but I have been heavily pun- 
ished all these years. Some day I hoped I 
might be free to love Tony . . . yet I hardly 
ever saw him ; he kept away from England as 
much as he could. There was never a word 
said between us. I never knew whether he still 
remembered, and still cared.” 

“Myrtle, I think I have always known, 
though you did not say anything. And I hoped 
some day ...” She looked at her pitifully. 

“It will never be, Nancy.” A shadow 
passed over her face. “I am not going to be 
sentimental, but I have often pictured that 
door opening, and Tony coming into the room. 


288 


ONLY ANNE 


Even these last days he has never seemed to me 
very far away. He always came suddenly; he 
never used to write and tell me beforehand. 
And now he will never come back.” 

All the time she was speaking her eyes were 
hard and very bright, and her voice was cold 
and steady. Only when she said these words, 
""And now he will never come hack/^ she seemed 
to be announcing a strange and fearful deso- 
lation. 

“I wonder if you can imagine, Nancy,” she 
said, “what it feels like to see the years waiting 
for you in an endless procession — long, long 
years holding out empty arms to you — years 
when you will never want to hear but the one 
voice, or see but the one face — just the voice 
and the face you can never, never hear or see!” 

She paused, and then said almost as if speak- 
ing to herself: 

“Waiting for you — silent and desolate — the 
long years.” 

“I think I understand, dear Myrtle,” said 
Anne softly. 

“I am upsetting you, Nancy,” said Myrtle; 
“you look quite ill. I must say when you do 
look ill you look perfectly ghastly.” 

“Oh, I am not ill,” said Anne, “but you see I 
have had such a long day, and I was so cold 


ONLY ANNE 


289 


traveling. I am not at all ill really, but I was 
up so early this morning.” 

“It seems so strange to see any one so calm 
— so uncaring,” said Myrtle, gazing at her with 
frank eyes, beneath whose scrutiny Anne 
winced slightly, “when I feel as if the whole 
world must be mourning for Tony!” 

Anne could not trust herself to speak. She 
was afraid that her own iron barriers of self- 
control would be broken down if Myrtle con- 
tinued to talk in this strain. She seemed to be 
looking at her friend across a gulf whose depth 
and width and dividing darkness she could 
neither estimate nor understand. 

She rose to her feet. 

“Dear Myrtle, it is time for me to go. Eric 
Brettingham promised to come in this evening 
and tell me if he had heard anything. I will 
telephone to you when I have seen him.” 

“I have always heard the Brettinghams 
were rather awful, and Tony never spoke to 
me of this one. Do you like them, Anne?” 

“Yes. They are very kind. And I am fond 
of Elf — their little girl.” 

“You always make friends wherever you 
go,” said Myrtle. “And I always contrive to 
shock people hideously.” 

She went to the door with Anne. On her 


290 


ONLY ANNE 


way she paused in front of a photograph of 
Anthony Egerton that stood on a little table. 

“I know you looked just like that,” she whis- 
pered, so low that Anne could hardly hear the 
words. “Proud and grave and perhaps a little 
sorry. Nancy, even you must have seen that 
look on his face!” 

Yes, Anne had seen it. Amid the snows 
above Zermatt, with the dark and melancholy 
shadows of the pine woods enfolding them, and 
the rushing, desolate sound of the river echo- 
ing in her ears, bewildering and deafening 
her. And Anthony’s voice was speaking again 
and telling her that he loved her, and An- 
thony’s face was near hers in the cold, austere 
moonlight — proud and grave and a little sorry. 

But as earlier in the day she had not felt any 
sensation of cold or hunger or fatigue, so now 
she felt none of pain or sorrow or grief. For 
to her also the waiting, desolate years seemed 
to be holding out mocking, empty arms. 


CHAPTER XIX 


It was nearly nine o’clock when Anne reached 
her fiat. She had some difficulty in getting 
there, for the streets were now so slippery with 
frozen snow that a drive partook of the nature 
of a perilous adventure. She had just taken 
off her hat and coat, and was sitting alone in 
the drawing-room, when she heard the bell ring 
and a few minutes later Eric Brettingham was 
announced. 

The snow lay in white patches on his coat. 
She wondered how long he had been wander- 
ing about in the fierce storm of wind and 
snow. 

‘‘May I come in, Melisande?” he said. He 
stood irresolutely on the threshold. 

“Won’t you take off your coat?” she said. 

“Yes,” he said, “perhaps I had better. It is 
colder than ever to-night.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I know it is. I have only 
just come in myself. But why do you call me 
Melisande?” 

He answered gravely: “I don’t feel as if I 
could call you Miss Travers any more. And 
you always remind me of Melisande. Ever 
291 


292 


ONLY ANNE 


since that night when I found you alone, and 
lost in the darkness and fog — exactly, I think, 
as Golaud found Melisande — I have always 
thought of you by that name. You are almost 
as intangible, almost as mysterious.” 

“Am I?” said Anne. “People are always 
telling me that I am mysterious and unreal. 
Yet everything is horribly real to me, and I 
have spent a most dreadful afternoon. I am 
simply tired out.” 

“You look tired,” he said, surveying her 
compassionately; “shall I go away?” 

“No, please don’t go. I want to see you. 
Have you heard anything more — any more de- 
tails?” 

“No. Nothing has been heard. The report 
is quite unconfirmed, but it is feared that it is 
almost sure to be true.” 

Anne bent her head over some sewing which 
she had taken up to distract her thoughts a 
little. It was a piece of white, filmy work, and 
she was embroidering it delicately. Eric 
watched her ; he could not help thinking of how 
he had watched her last night as her little hands 
gathered up the cards, and of her unconscious 
face when he himself had just learned the news 
of Anthony Egerton’s death. 

“I brought these for you to see,” he said 


ONLY ANNE 


293 


presently, giving her a packet of evening 
papers. “There are notices of him in all of 
them, and they all praise him. I do not think 
Egerton had an enemy in the world.” 

“I am sure he had not. I should like to read 
them presently — if you can leave them.” 

“Please keep them,” he said; “I thought 
there might be some one to whom you would 
like to show them.” 

“Yes,” she said, and paused. Then looking 
at him gravely she said: “May I tell you some- 
thing in confidence?” 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“I have been with her to-day. With the 
woman Sir Anthony loved. With the woman 
who loved him.” 

Her face was flushed. 

“I thought that was where you had gone,” 
he said simply. 

“You asked me once — do you remember? — 
if I was the woman!” 

“Yes,” he assented. He was still unable to 
believe that she had not cared for An- 
thony. 

“You see now — that I was not,” she said 
quite steadily. “But I am her friend. That 
is what makes his death a sad thing for me. I 
think I am almost her greatest friend.” 


294 


ONLY ANNE 


“I am sure it was a comfort to her to have 
you with her,” he said. 

She was silent. Again she took up her work 
and added a few stitches. But she seemed quite 
unable to concentrate her mind upon it. 

“You see you appreciated him. You knew 
him enough to know what a personality he had 
— how splendid he was!” 

“Yes,” said Anne. 

“It seems impossible to realize it,” said Eric. 
“I can not help wondering all the time if he was 
ill long. I can not think of him as dead. He 
seemed so strong — so full of life — as if he 
were made of iron. I used to think nothing 
could touch him 1” 

Yes, he had loved him. He would gladly 
have followed him to death, desiring nothing 
better, perhaps, than to die by his side. An- 
thony had possessed in no small degree the 
capacity for making himself beloved. 

Then to Anne’s astonishment and dismay 
Eric hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. 

She almost envied him those tears — as she 
envied him for being able to display his grief 
so openly. She had not shed a single tear for 
Anthony. All through that terrible day of 
bereavement she had been compelled to hide 
her grief, to think only of Myrtle, of being with 


ONLY ANNE 


295 


her friend and serving her, just as if the news 
had meant nothing to herself at all. She had 
done all she could for Myrtle, and now she 
longed to go away and hide like a wounded 
animal, and mourn where no one might see her. 
She craved a little space of quiet in which to 
weep unseen for her beloved dead. 

It was almost strange to think that this 
wandering gipsy of a man, so aloof, so re- 
served, so intent upon his work, should have yet 
been so enduringly beloved by the few people 
who knew him intimately — Myrtle, Eric Bret- 
tingham, and herself. 

Anthony, strong, human, vigorous, seemed 
to have no part nor lot with this stranger who 
was dead and whose praises were now on all 
men’s lips. 

“Don’t cry,” she said almost harshly. “I 
know, of course, you must feel it dreadfully. 
I am sure you cared for him very much, and 
perhaps you are thinking that if you had been 
able to stay beside him he would have recov- 
ered, and things would have turned out differ- 
ently. But you must think, too, of the time 
when you will be able to take his place, carry 
on his work, gather up the broken threads. I 
think that is what he would have liked best. 
Not idle grieving for one who died in harness — 


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as he must have wished to die — but the carry- 
ing on of the work that was close to his heart, 
and for which he gave his own valuable life!” 

Her words roused and stimulated Eric. He 
looked up half-ashamed of his weakness. He 
was overwrought and thoroughly overtired. 
For hours — although she did not know it — he 
had been pacing those desolate London streets, 
heedless of the cold and snow. 

“That is splendid of you, Melisande,” he 
said; “you understood him perfectly.” 

“I don’t think he was difficult to under- 
stand,” she answered ; “he was so single-minded 
— had such simple purposes and aims — all 
straightforward and honorable. Nothing was 
too much trouble. I think that is why he suc- 
ceeded. At least that is how he seemed to me, 
but you must know him a great deal better. 
You have known him so much longer than I 
have.” 

“I am sure he must have found you very 
sympathetic,” said Eric wistfully. He felt 
jealous no longer; he was satisfied that Anne 
had not loved Anthony as once he had feared 
that she might. That passing jealousy of his 
had been set at rest. Although she was grieved 
at this tragic death of one whom she had known 
and appreciated, her complete absence of emo- 


ONLY ANNE 


297 


tion showed him plainly that she had never 
loved him. He began to feel that this strange 
and sudden intimacy of theirs was the direct 
outcome of fate, and that some day she would 
be his wife. He loved her; he thought he had 
loved her that night when they had walked 
home from Craddon in the fog, before he had 
even seen her face. And some day — perhaps 
at no far future date — he would tell her so. 
He gave her a quick, searching look. How 
large and dark her eyes looked to-night, with 
the little shadows round them telling of fatigue 
and anxiety! How pale she was — with the 
look of one who has passed through the crisis 
of some severe and mysterious malady. But 
the fact that her heart was broken with grief 
never once entered into his wildest thoughts. 
She had said she was not the woman whom An- 
thony had loved; she had never told him that 
she was also the woman who had loved An- 
thony to the destruction of all her peace of 
mind. 

When he had gone she went to the telephone 
and rang up Myrtle. 

“Is that you. Myrtle? Mr. Brettingham has 
just gone. No; there is no more news. I will 
come and see you the first thing in the morning. 
How is Pat? I hope you will try and get some 


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rest to-night; you will need all your strength 
if he is going to be bad again. Good-night, 
dear Myrtle.” 

She hung up the receiver, and then went 
slowly into her own room. She was glad that 
she had left Clotilde at Middlecombe. At least 
these next few hours would be her own. But 
even when she knelt down and prayed for this 
man whose soul had gone out on its last jour- 
ney, no tears came to her relief. No — she must 
not cry. She would need all her courage. In 
the morning she would go back to Myrtle — 
Myrtle who needed her so sorely. She must 
not go to her with a face that betrayed her own 
grief. She must still look as Myrtle had said — 
calm and uncaring. 


CHAPTER XX 

Myrtle was compelled to sit up most of the 
night with her husband, whose attack had been 
a far more severe one than they had originally 
supposed. He lay in a very exhausted, almost 
comatose condition, and did not seem to recog- 
nize any one, and neither Myrtle nor the doctor 
thought it safe to leave him for fear there 
should be a sudden failure of the heart’s action. 

Anne went around to Brook Street about 
half -past nine on the following day. Myrtle 
came in to see her soon afterward, looking 
rather wan from her long vigil. 

“Nancy, I’m simply dead tired. I long to 
have a good sleep,” she said, kissing her. “He 
has really been very bad all night and we have 
had to give him stimulants continually.” 

She knelt on the rug beside the fire and held 
out her slim, Jong hands to the blaze. The 
night had Seemed to her interminably long, yet 
she knew that even if she had gone to bed she 
would have been unable to sleep. 

“You will really have to take some rest to- 
day,” said Anne. 

“What have you got there, Nancy?” asked 
299 


300 


ONLY ANNE 


Myrtle, looking at the packet of newspapers 
Anne had laid on the table. 

“Mr. Brettingham brought me last night’s 
papers. There are some notices — I thought 
you would like to read them.” 

“No, I should not care to read them,” said 
Myrtle with a little shudder; “still, it was kind 
of you think of bringing them. You see, I 
know what he was so much better than any one 
else. They can tell me nothing that I don’t 
know already.” 

She leaned her head on her hand. 

“Is this Mr. Brettingham in love with you, 
Nancy?” she inquired. 

“Certainly not,” said Anne; “we have only 
known each other quite a short time.” 

“Still, you seem very intimate. Does he run 
in and out of your flat every day?” 

“He only came in last night after I got back 
just to tell me the result of his inquiries. You 
see he was very devoted to Sir Anthony — he is 
most dreadfully grieved about it all. He had 
really started on this expedition with him, but 
was sent home because he had a bad attack of 
fever. He has not been back at Middlecombe 
many weeks, and I think he feels that if he had 
been out there — with him — he might have done 
something to save his life.” 


ONLY ANNE 


301 


‘‘Some day I should like to meet him,” said 
Myrtle; “he must have seen him comparatively 
lately. I should like to hear about it.” 

Later she went back to Lord Chard, and 
Anne, seeing that at present she could be of 
no further use, returned home to rest. She had 
scarcely slept at all and her head was aching 
violently. When Eric telephoned to know if 
he might come she begged him to postpone his 
visit till tea-time. This would give her a little 
time to go round to Brook Street after 
luncheon. 

Her plan was, however, frustrated, for just 
as she was going across the passage toward the 
lift the iron gates opened, and two figures 
emerged therefrom and approached her. One 
was Mr. Vincent Travers, beaming and 
rubicund, while close behind him followed 
the massive and impressive figure of Mrs. 
Grayle. 

“Oh, there you are, Nancy!” he cried, mak- 
ing a dart toward her and chuckling with 
pleasure. “We have only just caught you, I 
see. You are going out, are you not? But I 
am sure you will be kind enough to stay five 
minutes and give us a cup of tea if it is not too 
early.” 

Anne greeted them with a look almost of 


302 


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terror, and led the way back into her flat. 
She rang the bell and ordered tea to be 
brought. 

“But you are sure you have had lunch?” she 
asked. 

“We had lunch in the train,” said Mrs. 
Grayle, who had hitherto preserved a some- 
what ominous silence. 

Anne wondered why they had come thus to- 
gether. A horrible thought suggested itself to 
her that perhaps they had become engaged 
to be married, and that she would soon have to 
learn to look upon Mrs. Grayle as an aunt. 
She observed that even Uncle Vin did not look 
so completely at his ease as usual, a condition 
of mind which he vainly endeavored to conceal 
beneath an exuberant heartiness of manner. 
He sank back into a chair near the fire, rubbed 
his hands together, and smiled encouragingly 
and perhaps a little deprecatingly at Anne. 
But his glance strayed nervously toward Mrs. 
Grayle, who merely said in a severe tone to 
Anne: 

“Away from the fire, if you please, Anne. 
This room is like an oven.” 

A slight diversion was created by the ap- 
pearance of tea. Anne poured it out, and for 
some minutes they ate and drank in silence. It 


ONLY ANNE 


808 


was so seldom that Uncle Vin was ever at a 
•loss conversationally that Anne became both 
alarmed and apprehensive as to the reason of 
this most unexpected and, it must be added, to 
her unwelcome visit. 

“When did you come up, Nancy?” inquired 
Uncle Vin at last, for his niece displayed not 
the slightest disposition to help him out. If he 
had anything disagreeable to tell her she was 
determined not to assist him. And she was 
perfectly aware that Mrs. Grayle’s attitude 
toward her was a hostile one ; it was expressed 
in her manner, and the curt way in which she 
had just addressed her. 

“Yesterday,” said Anne, feeling rather like 
an unwilling witness in a criminal case. 

Yesterday stood out from all other days like 
some wild and bad dream, strangely near, and 
yet of immemorial antiquity and incalculable 
remoteness; it belonged to quite another life, 
to another Anne Travers who once — a long 
time ago — had been both young and tran- 
quilly happy. Even Mrs. Grayle seemed an 
inappreciable figure across this dim gulf of 
time. 

It seemed quite absurd to speak of any- 
thing as having happened yesterday. 

Mrs. Grayle regarded her with a penetrat- 


304 


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ing expression; there was something pitiless, 
too, in her cold stare. 

‘‘I really do not think we need beat about the 
bush, Mr. Travers,” she said after a brief scru- 
tiny of Anne. “It is better to get to business 
at once, and to get it over, too, as quickly as 
possible, especially as Anne is going out. We 
have come here to-day, Anne, for the purpose 
of trying to induce you to return to Elsham, 
at any rate for a time. If you can not make 
up your mind to live at the Abbey with your 
uncle, who is kind enough to offer you a home 
once more, there is a cottage in the Park which 
I should be prepared to let to you, in consider- 
ation of all the circumstances, at a merely nom- 
inal rent. It is delightfully situated — close to 
our south lodge !” 

Anne was so completely paralyzed at this 
suggestion that words failed her. 

Mr. Travers struck in eagerly; 

“Yes, my dear, I feel that Mrs. Grayle is 
quite right. We think it is time for you to give 
up this very extraordinary and independent 
life. For the first year or two I had nothing 
to complain of ; you were very careful and be- 
haved, as far as I know, perfectly sedately. 
But now, my dear, people are talking. We 
are not hundreds of miles from Middlecombe, 


ONLY ANNE 


305 


and your name is being continually associated 
with young Brettingham’s. It does not do for 
a young girl to be talked about, not, at least, 
when she is as young and good-looking as you 
are, dear Nancy!” 

“Youth — and looks said Mrs. Grayle, with 
a scarcely disguised sniff, “have nothing to do 
with the question. It is simply a question of 
what a lady can do and what she can not. Look 
at Ethel and Vera. Ethel has made a most 
charming and suitable marriage ; she and Fred 
Westbrook are admirably suited to each other, 
and they are as happy as the day is long. Vera 
and Conrad — ah, we are coming to our little 
secret now, Anne!” — in a tone that had sud- 
denly become gay and almost arch — “but of 
course you have heard nothing of that ! Dear 
children, they have just found out that they 
can not possibly be happy without each other. 
I have waived the question of religion; and 
Vera is such a sweet, obedient child she will 
believe exactly what her husband wishes her 
to; there will be no differences of that kind. 
We wished you to be one of the first to know!” 

Anne remained aghast at the facile manner 
in which Mrs. Grayle had disposed of such a 
serious matter as a prospective change of re- 
ligion. Was Vera prepared thus to accept the 


306 


ONLY ANNE 


grave and deep wisdom of the Catholic Church 
because her future husband told her to do so? 
Mrs. Grajde had long been a by- word in Els- 
ham for her hatred of the Benedictines and 
their mission, and in this spirit she had care- 
fully trained both her daughters. Why had 
she made this sudden change of front? Cer- 
tainly, Conrad Travers was richly dowered; 
he had inherited most of his mother’s money, 
and during his father’s lifetime was an even 
better parti for a girl than his elder brother. 

“Ethel’s marriage was an immense joy to 
me, but I confess that dear Vera’s engagement 
has given me even greater pleasure. The chil- 
dren have known each other nearly all their 
lives, and they are so charmingly simple and 
natural about it. And now to go back to our 
muttons, Anne,” she continued in a ponder- 
ously playful strain; “as there is to be this very 
close connection between our two families (for 
I always regard my girls’ in-laws as if they 
were my own blood-relations), I felt that it 
was my duty to speak to your uncle about you, 
and he quite agrees with me that for all our 
sakes you must alter your mode of life, which 
is such a source of distress and anxiety to us all 
just now. A girl of barely three and twenty 
living alone as you do — receiving her guests 


ONLY ANNE 


307 


exactly as if she were married — lays herself 
open to gossip. Your name has been mixed 
up of recent months not only with one man, but 
with two! Of course I have only experience 
of one, but I must honestly tell you that the 
extraordinary episode at the Riffel Alp, and 
your subsequent conduct when it was alluded 
to at Elsham, combined with the fact that you 
tried to keep your companion’s name from us, 
did create a most unpleasant and permanently 
disturbing impression upon me!” 

At this cruel allusion to Anthony Egerton 
the girl turned very white. Even Uncle Vin 
stirred his tea nervously as if he felt that too 
much had perhaps been said. He looked at his 
niece with an imploring glance, as though to 
entreat her to submit at once without further 
discussion, protest, or rebellion, to the man- 
dates of Mrs. Grayle. After all, there was 
nothing at all unreasonable about her request. 
Having once been admitted, so to speak, into 
the Travers family, her intention of enfolding 
Elsham Abbey and all that belonged to it 
under her comprehensive dominion had rapidly 
made itself felt, and it was she who had warned 
him about Anne, putting her position in front 
of him in such plain words that he found him- 
self on the point of believing that Anne had 


308 


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behaved in a manner that was slightly more 
than indiscreet. He had taken fright, and the 
present expedition to town had been the result. 
He had promised to join his protests, albeit 
unwillingly, to those of Mrs. Grayle. 

The cottage in the Park was a capital idea. 
It was a fairly spacious place ; he had been all 
over it, and thought it was a dear little box 
which would suit Anne admirably, and then 
Mrs. Grayle had been so generous in her offer 
to do it up throughout, and put in electric light 
and a bathroom. 

Although Anne had so far said nothing, it 
was easy for him to see that the suggestion did 
not commend itself to her. But then, he re- 
flected, she had always been obstinate, and had 
had her own way from her earliest years; her 
father had spoiled her, and she was difficult to 
deal with. 

It was only a few days ago — directly Con- 
rad’s engagement had been successfully ac- 
complished — that Mrs. Grayle had divulged 
her views upon the subject of Anne to him. 

“Her church is so handy she can not possibly 
make that an excuse for refusing,” she had 
said, and she will, of course, be perfectly free — 
as free as she is now — but it will be much better 
for her if we have her under our eye!” 


ONLY ANNE 


309 


“I am sure that Anne is a very good girl,” 
he found himself expostulating nervously; “she 
is such a very good Catholic, you know, and I 
am sure even if she is a little independent of 
our old-fashioned ways of thinking, and in- 
clined to forget, too, how very young and 
pretty she is, she would never do anything to 
disgrace her name!” 

“I am afraid,” Mrs. Grayle had responded 
loftily, “that it is absolutely no recommenda- 
tion to me to hear that a girl is a good Cath- 
olic. There are numbers of Catholics whom 
I should be sorry to hold up as examples of 
perfection.” 

“But in the case of a good little girl like 
Anne — who is really very devout about her 
religion ” 

Mrs. Grayle had shrugged her shoulders. 
She had embarked upon the campaign, and she 
intended to carry it through. For had not her 
old friend, Mrs. Vipan of Bath, who was also 
intimately acquainted with the Brettinghams, 
remarked casually upon hearing of Vera’s en- 
gagement: “Oh, is she really going to marry 
Conrad Travers? His cousin is that extraordi- 
nary girl who lives quite by herself down in a 
little cottage of Middlecombe. I have often 
wondered what made her go and settle herself 


310 


ONLY ANNE 


in such a place! Yet from all I can hear, there 
seems to be nothing against her, and Eric 
Brettingham is already over head and ears in 
love with her.’’ 

It was impossible that people should have 
cause to speak thus of any of Vera’s future re- 
lations. It made her more than ever deter- 
mined to put a stop to the whole thing at once 
— to make a personal matter of it. She knew 
what Anne was capable of — the episode at the 
Riffel Alp had thrown abundant light on the 
girl’s character. The man was dead, and she 
wondered if Anne had been at all affected by 
the news. But Anne looked much as usual, a 
trifle paler, perhaps, but then she was never 
robust. Indeed, who could be robust living in 
such a stuffy atmosphere ? Mrs. Grayle longed 
to throw open the window. She disliked strong 
perfumes, and the scent of some early lilies- 
of-the-valley that stood on a table near her 
almost moved her to mentioning the fact. 

'Tt would be such a pleasure to me, Nancy,” 
went on Uncle Vin, “to have you in our midst 
again. I often want a hostess badly to do the 
honors, and you could always come and act for 
me in that capacity,” he added enthusiastically. 

Mrs. Grayle struck in calmly: 

“Of course, directly Conrad and Vera are 


ONLY ANNE 


311 


married, Vera would naturally take the head 
of your table, as they intend to live at the 
Abbey. A daughter-in-law comes before a 
niece, and, of course, being a married woman, 
she would in any case take precedence of 
Anne !” 

“Ah, yes, but, of course, the young couple 
won’t always be there,” said Mr. Travers, “and 
I was thinking of the times when they would 
be away. Well, Nan, dear, it is very kind of 
Mrs. Grayle — is it not? — to take such an in- 
terest in us all; and I am sure you will find it 
in every way a change for the better. Elsham 
is a much better neighborhood than Middle- 
combe. I never could stand that muggy 
Somersetshire climate myself! Nothing like 
a good breath of our bracing Cotswold air to 
blow away the cobwebs 1 Mrs. Yip an says she 
knows your little shanty at Middlecombe quite 
well, and the old lady who used to live there 
was a friend of hers. You never asked your 
old uncle to come and pay you a visit, but 
she says it is quite a poky little place! You 
have not struck any roots there yet, so I am 
sure you will not mind giving it up.” 

“I have not the slightest intention of giving 
it up,” said Anne, in a quiet, gentle, but deter- 
mined voice. “You see I have bought it. It 


312 


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belongs to me. I am — a landed proprietor,” 
she added, with a faint smile, as she waited for 
the result of this bomb-shell. 

''Bought it!” cried Uncle Vin incredulously. 
That a woman — any woman — should buy 
landed or house property without consulting 
her male relatives was inconceivable. 

"Bought it!” echoed Mrs. Grayle, in a tone 
of consternation. 

Both faces were purple and agitated at this 
unexpected announcement. 

“Oh, but you can quite easily sell it again,” 
said Uncle Vin. “Sir Joshua Brettingham, 
now — he would buy it, I am quite sure, and 
take it off your hands! I could drop him a 
line and tell him it is in the market. He would 
be certain to buy it at once, for fear of its being 
sold for building purposes. I am convinced he 
would not like to have a row of red, jerry-built 
villas just outside his park-gates. A man would 
make any sacrifice rather than allow that to 
happen, and probably he would be willing to 
give you a very good price for it, far better 
than you gave, if the truth were known. It 
is only a question of putting the matter before 
him in the right light,” and he waved his little, 
rather pudgy hand as if he could easily con- 
vince Sir Joshua, by a mere stroke of the pen. 


ONLY ANNE 


313 


of the inevitable disasters which would ensue 
upon his refusal to purchase Anne’s cottage. 

“A man like that, who has made his own for- 
tune and who has lived for such a long time in 
the suburbs, as Mrs. Vipan says he has, would 
be certain to dislike the thought of having a 
row of jerry-built villas at his park -gates,” he 
reiterated jubilantly. The prospect of doing 
a deal with this city man on his niece’s behalf 
filled him with a keen sense of anticipatory 
pleasure. 

Mrs. Grayle, however, felt that he had em- 
barked upon the discussion of a quite unneces- 
sary side issue. Whether Anne sold the cot- 
tage or not was quite immaterial in her eyes. 

“That is all beside the point,” she said, with 
lofty majesty. “It does not signify in the least 
whether Sir Joshua cares to acquire the prop- 
erty or not, but I have no doubt that, if all I 
hear is true, he will not be heartbroken if Anne 
leaves the neighborhood. He can not like the 
way in which she goes scouring the country at 
all hours in his son’s motor-car! He belongs 
to a class which has not yet learned to regard 
these unconventional ways with indifference. 
The property can be placed in the market in 
the usual way — which is far more dignified 
than trying to extract the uttermost farthing 


314 


ONLY ANNE 


by a private sale to* a friend. And even if 
Anne does lose a little by the transaction, she 
has only herself to thank for buying it with- 
out asking the advice of her guardians.” 

‘‘Oh, as far as that goes, Anne is quite free to 
do exactly what she likes with her own money,” 
said Uncle Vin, who had a strong sense of jus- 
tice and began to feel that Mrs. Grayle’s 
tongue was indeed running away with her, as 
the saying goes. Extraordinarily insensitive 
and tactless as he was, he felt that the war was 
being carried on unfairly, and he did not want 
to see his little Nancy bullied. Only Mrs. 
Grayle was so kind-hearted and took such a 
warm interest in every one, and always seemed 
to know exactly what was the right and proper 
course for them to pursue, and he had implicit 
faith in her judgment. She was a woman of 
large experience — so he fondly imagined — and 
knew the world, and Mrs. Vipan had certainly 
said one or two things about Anne which he 
had not quite liked, and she must be made to 
see the necessity of putting an end to all this 
gossip. It was Mrs. Vipan who must have 
been telling Mrs. Grayle about this young 
Brettingham and his motor. The sooner Anne 
was removed from this equivocal position the 
better. Mrs. Grayle was so wise that he felt 


ONLY ANNE 


315 


he could depend upon her judgment. Only 
she was not going to work in quite the right 
way. If she spoke like this it would only have 
the effect of making Anne angry, and then she 
would be more obstinate than ever. Still, he 
had unbounded faith in Mrs. Grayle! Had 
she not convinced him that he would be far 
better off if he dismissed the kitchenmaid — a 
really nice girl, who had been there for quite a 
long time — because she had shown herself so 
hopelessly incompetent in the matter of the 
flues that there was never sufficient hot water 
for the bath? It was only her manner that 
was sometimes unfortunate. 

‘‘I am sure that Mrs. Grayle has your wel- 
fare very much at heart, Nancy,” he announced 
beamingly; “y^^ so young, and you do not 
realize how censorious the world can be. Now, 
about this motor-car — I hadn’t heard of it be- 
fore, and I am sure you thought there was 
really no reason why you shouldn’t go about 
with young Brettingham — very good, worthy 
people, I know, though perhaps not quite of 
our own class!” 

Anne remained silent. At any other time 
Mrs. Grayle’s considered insolences might have 
aroused her indignation, but she was too sore 
at heart to take much notice of them. 


316 


ONLY ANNE 


“It was with great regret,” said Mrs. Grayle, 
“that I read in the papers of Sir Anthony 
Egerton’s death. Such a valuable life! I 
should have condoled you, Anne, upon losing 
such an intimate friend had it not been that I 
heard lately you were constantly to be seen 
about with young Brettingham. I was in Bath 
only the other day, and I assure you several 
people spoke to me about it, when I mentioned 
Vera’s engagement to your cousin. I believe 
even his mother is unaware how much time you 
spend together.” 

“Very worthy people,” said Uncle Vin; 
“self-made, of course, and none the worse for 
that! Look at Napoleon! I always respect 
that type of man.” 

The analogy between Sir Joshua’s career 
and that of Napoleon was not immediately ob- 
vious, but Anne gave an unwilling smile in 
spite of herself. 

“I am afraid we have no society of that sort 
to offer Anne in Elsham,” said Mrs. Grayle 
witheringly. “Of course, the very best thing 
you can do, Anne, is to marry this young man. 
He will be very rich, and I daresay, as you 
seem to like him so much, you could learn to 
overlook his commonness. You can not expect 
to make a very brilliant marriage now, though. 


ONLY ANNE 


317 


I suppose, you have always thought you would 
follow in Lady Chard’s footsteps. If the heirs 
to peerages do not marry in their own class — 
young, carefully brought-up girls just out of 
the schoolroom — they invariably select them 
from the variety stage, and you fulfil neither 
of these conditions. The Brettinghams are 
as good as you can expect. If this young man 
makes you an offer — which he is almost in 
honor bound to do — I advise you to accept it 
at once!” 

Anne was too much stupefied by the careless 
and brutal words to make any reply. Assist- 
ance came at that moment, for the door opened 
and Eric Brettingham was announced. Anne 
was so delighted to see him that she felt almost 
inclined to fall upon his neck and tell him so. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Eric came forward into the room. It seemed 
as if he had eyes for no one but Anne. She 
rose and held out her hand to him. 

“Melisande,” he said quickly, ‘T have not 
much time to spare. I am going down to 
Middlecombe to-night by the late train, and I 
came to see if you had any messages for them 
at the cottage.” 

The sharp, white light fell full on his loose, 
golden-colored hair. He was so extraordi- 
narily handsome that both Mrs. Grayle and 
Mr. Travers were taken by surprise. 

‘T don’t think there is anything,” said Anne ; 
“but you have not met my uncle, Mr. Travers 
— and Mrs. Grayle.” She introduced them, 
and Eric shook hands with them both. He 
seemed only just to have become aware of their 
presence. 

“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Bretting- 
ham,” said Mr. Travers, adding, with his usual 
fatal frankness, “we were just talking about 
you, or rather about your father. Anne is 
probably going to sell her little shanty at 
Middlecombe, in order to settle near me at 
318 


ONLY ANNE 


319 


Elsham. We were wondering if your father 
would care to buy it before we put it up for 
auction !” 

Eric turned quickly toward Anne. 

“Why, you never said a word about that,” 
he said, almost reproachfully. “I had simply 
no idea you intended to sell the cottage. You 
know what my father is; he doesn’t care at all 
for the place, and says he will never buy an- 
other inch of ground at Middlecombe. But 
perhaps I might buy it myself, if Miss Travers 
is really so anxious to get rid of it! Surely, 
this is quite a new idea of yours?” 

“Oh, we don’t mind in the least who buys it,” 
interrupted Uncle Vin, before Anne could even 
reply; “only, you see, we thought it would 
only be fair to Sir Joshua to give him an op- 
portunity of acquiring it lest it should fall into 
the hands of builders. I am sure he would not 
like to have a row of red, jerry-built villas run 
up just outside his gates,” he explained, trying 
to imagine what his own feelings would be if 
such a calamity should befall him at Elsham. 

But it was impossible to believe that such 
atrocities could be perpetrated in the sacred 
precincts of Elsham! 

Eric smiled — a slow, rather ironical smile. 

“I am afraid you do not know my father at 


320 


ONLY ANNE 


all, Mr. Travers,” he said lightly. “I do not 
think he would ever notice them, but if he did, 
I expect he would rather incline to the opinion 
that they gave a homely look to the place. 
And if, in addition, some one were to set up a 
tram-line — say, to Bath, for instance — that 
would complete his happiness!” 

Mrs. Grayle was about to make a suitable 
reply, but Eric’s air of well-bred ease effec- 
tually stifled it. 

“He called her Melisande,” she was thinking 
to herself. It was clear that their footing was 
one of intimate friendship. “That shows what 
he thinks of her! I wonder if she calls him 
Pelleas?” And she felt compelled to admit 
that he would certainly make an ideal Pelleas, 
this beautiful youth with the golden hair and 
eager blue eyes. “Anne may think herself very 
lucky if she gets him,” was her next unspoken 
comment. 

He quite succeeded in upsetting all her pre- 
conceived ideas of what a Brettingham must be 
like; she had pictured him short and common- 
looking, with a red neck and coarse hands. 
This man — to use her own expression — might 
have been any one. 

“I hope you will repent,” he was saying to 
Anne, almost affectionately. “I am sorry we 


ONLY ANNE 


321 


have bored you so horribly at Middlecombe 
that you are unable to put up with it any 
longer. And you had just done it up so charm- 
ingly!” 

“My dear Nancy, I do hope you have not 
spent a great deal of money on it?” cried Mr. 
Travers, now genuinely alarmed. “You should 
have waited to see if it suited you before you 
spent a penny upon doing it up. You can 
never tell if a house suits you until you have 
lived in it for a whole year — sampled all the 
seasons in it, so to speak. A place may be de- 
lightful in winter — so warm and sheltered — • 
and then, when summer comes, you find you 
are baked alive in it. I quite understood you 
to say that you were only renting the place 
furnished when you came over to Elsham with 
Lady Chard in the summer.” 

“The owner died,” said Anne briefly, “and 
it was put up for sale, so I bought it.” 

“I still think it was very unwise to take such 
a definite step without consulting me,” said 
Mr. Travers; “probably you paid much more 
than it was worth, and I do hope the lease was 
all in order. Of course, I know I am not your 
guardian any more — but it does take a man, 
dear Nancy, to see to these things!” 

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Anne, “be- 


322 


ONLY ANNE 


cause you know I have not the faintest inten- 
tion of leaving Middlecombe. My uncle/’ she 
continued, turning to Eric, “has quite made up 
his mind that I should be happer down at El- 
sham, and Mrs. Grayle has kindly offered me 
a cottage on her property. But I am much 
too happy at Middlecombe, and in any case, I 
could not face another move so soon.” 

She spoke very rapidly and nervously, for 
she was desperately afraid of wounding Uncle 
Vin’s feelings. But, at the same time, she was 
fully determined to show Mrs. Grayle that her 
mind was made up on the point. Why did 
they think it necessary to come and interfere? 
She had been so happy there ! 

“Oh, I am so glad, then, that they have not 
been able to persuade you,” said Eric, with a 
very winning smile; “and I hope Mr. Travers 
will come over and have lunch with us one day, 
and then you could show him the place; he 
would fall in love with it, I am sure! I had 
really a horrible fright that you intended to 
vanish — you have such a trick of vanishing and 
reappearing, you know!” 

“I assure you I am not going to vanish,” 
said Anne, smiling. 

Soon afterwards he rose to go. “I shall 
miss my train if I stay any longer,” he said. 


ONLY ANNE 


323 


“And are you quite sure, then, I can do noth- 
ing for you down in Somersetshire?” He 
shook hands with Anne and with both her 
visitors. Anne went with him to the door, and 
said in a low voice ; 

“You have heard nothing else, I suppose?” 

He shook his head. “Not a word,” he an- 
swered; “but I am coming back to-morrow, 
and there may be some more news by that 
time.” 

There was a slight pause after he had left 
the room. Mr. Travers was the first to 
break it. 

“A very charming young fellow,” he com- 
mented enthusiastically. “Dear me, how well 
they turn out in these days — these tradesmen’s 
sons! Of course, they have the best of every- 
thing. Really this young Brettingham has 
quite a distinguished air ! And he seemed gen- 
uinely distressed at the thought of your leav- 
ing Middlecombe, my dear Nancy. Well, well, 
I should be quite proud to welcome him into 
the family! Indeed, I think a girl might feel 
very proud of him — such a handsome young 
man ! It is absurd to nurse the old class-pre j u- 
dice in these democratic days. Everything has 
so completely changed since these demagogues 
took over the government of the country.” 


324 


ONLY ANNE 


“Sir Joshua was not a tradesman,” said 
Anne; “he made his fortune on the Stock Ex- 
change !” 

“On the Stock Exchange ? That makes your 
purchase an even more rash one than I feared, 
Nancy ! Did you not hear his son say he would 
never buy another inch of land in Middle- 
combe? That does not look as if it would prove 
a very sound investment !” 

“But I did not want an investment. I 
wanted a home,” said Anne. 

At this point Mrs. Grayle rose. 

“I regret that Anne has not seen fit to meet 
our suggestion in a friendly spirit,” she said 
acidly. “I am, of course, aware that other in- 
fiuences — stronger than ours — are pulling her 
in a totally opposite direction, and encouraging 
her to behave in this independent and, I must 
say, ill-judged manner!” 

The glove was now flung down, but Anne 
forbore to pick it up. For her uncle’s sake, as 
well as for Conrad’s, she had no wish to quar- 
rel with Mrs. Grayle. But the prospect of liv- 
ing at her gates became a less and less alluring 
one. 

“Well, I am a little bit inclined to agree with 
Anne,” said Uncle Vin, with a perfectly 
shameless change of front. “Perhaps, now we 


ONLY ANNE 


325 


come to consider the question, Mrs. Grayle — 
quite fairly and without prejudice — we can see 
that there is no immediate reason for Anne to 
think of turning out at once! She had better 
think it over quietly and weigh all the pros and 
cons in her wise little head, eh, Nancy?” He 
beamed upon his niece, and his manner was 
now quite eager and propitiatory. “Nothing 
against young Brettingham — nothing at all — 
except, perhaps, the absence of quarterings, 
and one can’t help that. And I am sure he 
must be very devoted to Nancy, from the way 
in which he came to see if he could do anything 
for her at Middlecombe. A very nice, chival- 
rous spirit, so different from most young men, 
who seem to think of nobody but themselves! 
In fact, now we have seen him, we can really 
hardly look upon him as an objection to Anne’s 
remaining at Middlecombe !” He appealed to 
Mrs. Grayle with a certain amount of anxiety. 

“I can not see that the situation has altered 
in the least,” said Mrs. Grayle; “in fact, I 
should say that, now we have seen the young 
man, and had an opportunity, too, of hearing 
the very familiar way in which he spoke to 
Anne, it seems more important than ever that 
she should be compelled to give up her present 
life. She permits him to address her by a very 


326 


ONLY ANNE 


dubious nickname! Perhaps you did not no- 
tice that he called her Melisande?” 

“It is quite a pretty name,” he said; “and, of 
course, it is less familiar than calling her Anne. 
You see, Nancy has been their near neighbor 
for several months, and naturally they are all 
on friendly terms. I don’t think we can ob- 
ject to that. I am beginning to think she is 
extraordinarily lucky to have found such pleas- 
ant neighbors.” 

It was clear now that Mr. Travers was rang- 
ing himself upon the side of the enemy. With 
every word he uttered Mrs. Grayle was cer- 
tain that his support was waning. So Anne 
was to continue to be the thorn in her flesh 
whenever she wished to expatiate upon the bril- 
liant marriage Vera was going to make with 
one of the “Elsham Traverses — such an old 
family — one of the old Catholic families!” 
“Oh, I wonder if he is any relation to that very 
odd Miss Travers who is living quite a her- 
mit’s life in a tiny cottage in Middlecombe?” 
She could hear voices far more spiteful than 
Mrs. Vipan’s making speeches of this kind. 

“I consider that Anne should be compelled 
to live under adequate chaperonage,” she said. 

“Compel? Oh, that is a hard word!” said 
Mr. Travers, in a nervously jocidar tone. 


ONLY ANNE 


327 


‘‘Her conduct is reflecting — as I have good 
reason to know — upon the family into which 
dear Vera is about to enter. It is a very dis- 
agreeable thing for me to have to say it, but 
in the interests of my own daughter I am 
obliged to speak.” 

“Still, supposing, in the future, Nancy 
should marry this young man,” he said. He 
longed to ask Anne point-blank if she was en- 
gaged to him. There had been something al- 
most lover-like in the way in which he had ad- 
dressed her! Dear little Anne — it would be 
quite a solution of a very difficult problem, 
which had often disturbed him at odd moments. 
Anything approaching to a love affair invari- 
ably threw the old gentleman into a pleasingly 
sentimental vein. “We must not be too harsh, 
or force Nancy into doing anything distaste- 
ful to her! Love’s young dream — it doesn’t do 
to hurry these things — and, of course, it is non- 
sense to suppose that Anne intends to be an 
old maid!” 

“But Anne is not engaged to Mr. Bretting- 
ham,” said Mrs. Grayle; “at least, she has not 
told us that she is! From what I have just 
seen I should very much doubt if she ever will 
be. Well, I must be going now. I fear our 
words and advice have all been wasted, and I 


328 ONLY ANNE 

hope Anne will not have to repent of her ob- 
stinacy.” 

Bestowing a final disapproving glance upon 
the girl, she at last took her departure, with 
Uncle Vin trotting submissively like a well- 
trained dog at her heels. 


CHAPTER XXII 


“How late you are, Nancy; I thought you 
were never coming,” said Myrtle, when Anne 
at last arrived in Brook Street. “Did you stay 
in bed all day? I meant to have a good rest, 
but I couldn’t sleep, so I had the car and went 
out for a couple of hours. I wish you had been 
with me.” 

“You must have been frozen,” said Anne. 

“Oh, no; it was closed, and I had a hot bot- 
tle,” said Myrtle carelessly. “Now tell me 
what you have been doing. You are looking 
quite white and exhausted.” 

“No wonder,” said Anne; “the only wonder 
is that I am able to come at all. I have had 
Mrs. Grayle there for nearly an hour.” 

“Mrs. Grayle!” echoed Myrtle. “Why, how 
did she find you out?” 

“I do not know if she came on chance or 
not. Uncle Vin was with her. I met them 
coming out of the lift just as I was starting to 
come here this afternoon. They stayed, as I 
have told you, for nearly an hour.” 

“An hour of her would wreck the strongest 
329 


330 


ONLY ANNE 


nerves,” said Myrtle ; “she is always a danger- 
ous occasion of sin to me. Why do you know 
her, Nancy? Why do you admit her? Why 
are you not so rude to her that she will never 
dare come near you again?” 

“I wish I could be,” said Anne, almost fer- 
vently; “it will be more difficult than ever in 
future, because she will be like one of the fam- 
ily!” 

“One of the family?” cried Myrtle. “Why, 
what on earth do you mean, Nancy? She is 
not going to marry your uncle, is she?” 

Anne laughed. 

“Not quite so bad as that,” she said; “though 
I was a little afraid of it myself when I saw 
them arrive together. But Conrad and Vera 
have found that they can not be happy without 
each other any more!” 

“You will never get rid of her now,” said 
Myrtle coolly. “What induced Conrad to do 
such a mad thing, I wonder? Did she come on 
purpose to announce the engagement?” 

“Not altogether; but she has taken it into 
her head that I am getting myself talked about 
by living alone at Middlecombe, and she 
wanted me to go and live in a cottage near her 
own south lodge!” 

“She thought that you, being sane and 


ONLY ANNE 


331 


sound, would put your head into the lion’s 
cage?” said Myrtle lazily. 

“Yes. She said my living in this way re- 
flected upon the family into which Vera was 
going to marry.” 

“Then she had much better keep her darling 
Vera out of the family!” said Myrtle. 

“She said — oh, horrible things! — and that I 
was being talked about, and that I had better 
marry Eric Brettingham if he asked me, and 
in the middle of it all, he came into the room. 
Of course. Uncle Vin took a fancy to him — 
did I tell you he was good-looking. Myrtle? — 
and he veered round and hoped soon to hear of 
my engagement!” 

“That must have annoyed her,” said Myrtle. 
“So poor Conrad is to marry Vera. He must 
be a fool. If I were a man I would not marry 
one of those girls for a fortune!” 

“Uncle Vin is quite pleased,” said Anne. 

“And the religion?” 

“Vera is such a sweet, obedient child, she 
will believe exactly what her husband wishes 
her to!” said Anne, with an excellent imitation 
of Mrs. Grayle’s voice and manner. 

“So they want you to go and live at Elsham 
to complete the family party?” said Myrtle. 

“But I should never do that,” said Anne 


332 


ONLY ANNE 


quickly. “Now I have bought my cottage, I 
am not likely to give it up. They were both 
so horrified to hear that I had bought it, Myr- 
tle! How is Pat this evening?” 

“He is wonderful,” said Lady Chard; “he 
has been asleep for the last eight hours. I only 
went in for a moment this afternoon. They 
will send for me when he wakes. But I don’t 
expect I shall have to stay up to-night.” 

If Myrtle had been controlled yesterday 
when she had first heard the news of Anthony’s 
death, she was a thousand times more con- 
trolled to-day. It was as if she had deliber- 
ately set her own grief aside. Anne could not 
help admiring her iron will, so out of keeping 
with her very fragile appearance. She was not 
going to allow herself to mourn for this man 
who had been secretly so dear to her — even as 
in his lifetime she had never permitted herself 
to acknowledge, even to her own heart, that 
she loved him. As an inevitable consequence 
of her own actions, she had accepted the pun- 
ishment without protest or rebellion. 

“Tell me,” she said, suddenly laying her 
hand on Anne’s, “you have not heard any more 
news, have you?” 

In her eyes there was a sadness more pro- 
found than any words of hers could suggest. 


ONLY ANNE 


333 


“No; Eric Brettingham had heard nothing,” 
said Anne; “he has gone home to-night, but he 
said he would be up again to-morrow.” 

“I do -not imagine there will be anything 
more just yet,” said Myrtle. “And I suppose 
if there were, this Mr. Brettingham would 
know as soon as any one. Anthony had very 
few people belonging to him. He had only the 
one brother, and he died some years ago, and 
he never liked his sister-in-law, and only paid 
her duty visits to see the boy, whose guardian 
he was. So Mrs. Egerton is not at all likely 
to hear anything, and I am sure she does not 
care one way or the other. Whatever he left 
will, I suppose, go to this boy. I don’t think 
there was any one else. He always seemed ab- 
solutely without ties.” 

“Have you told Pat about it?” asked Anne. 

“N o ; there was no need. He must have read 
it in the papers — you see, he was pretty well 
that morning, but he has not said anything 
about it. I think he has been watching me for 
some sign of emotion,” she gave a little hard 
laugh. “Needless to say, I have not given him 
that satisfaction! He was always a little jeal- 
ous of poor Tony. Unfortunately, when we 
were first engaged, I was stupid enough to tell 
him that Tony had asked me to marry him. 


334 


ONLY ANNE 


That was quite enough to make him dislike 
him forever. But lately I think he had forgot- 
ten to be jealous — Tony came so little to the 
house. I even began to think he had got over 
it, and didn’t care for me any more, and that 
perhaps there might be some one else. Anne, 
it was then that I began to wonder if you were 
the woman — who had taken my place!” 

Anne was silent for a moment. Once this 
doubt had entered her own heart — the fruit of 
Anthony’s passionate words. 

‘T can not think why you should ever have 
had that idea,” she said at last; ‘T had only 
known him such a short time.” 

“But I think a man might learn to love you 
very quickly, Anne. Look at this young Bret- 
tingham — he seems absolutely at your feet al- 
ready; then there was Vincent — both of them 
men who could have given you almost anything 
in the world. N ancy, why do you throw away 
these chances of love and happiness and 
wealth?” 

What could she say? It was so impossible 
to tell Myrtle the truth; to open her lips and 
say: “It is because I, too, loved Tony — and 
it was for your sake that I refused to marry 
him.” 

Let Myrtle keep her dream. Whatever 


ONLY ANNE 


335 


happiness and consolation it could give her, let 
her retain it. Anne felt that if she destroyed 
it now it would be like committing a murder. 

And she was more loyal, if possible, to this 
dead Anthony than to the living man who had 
won her whole heart’s love. 

She was glad when Myrtle rose, saying: “I 
must go back to Pat now, Nancy, but you will 
stay and dine with me, won’t you? I do so hate 
these lonely meals.” 

Anne was sitting alone in her drawing-room 
a few days later. All signs of the wintry 
weather had now disappeared, leaving its 
traces only in the increased slush and dirt con- 
sequent upon the sudden and violent thaw. 
Across the pale gray square of the window a 
faint reflection of the sunset had spread a slow 
amber stain. Little wisps of purple cloud were 
creeping across the distant strip of sky, join- 
ing hands, as it were, until they formed a dark 
violet web that closed across the space of light 
like a thin, indeterminate shadow. There 
would be no stars to-night. 

The day had been wet, and the chilly rain 
had not ceased to fall until quite late in the 
afternoon. The pavements were still dark and 
shining, and the great, moon-colored electric 


336 


ONLY ANNE 


lamps cast upon them long, wavy rivers of 
shadowed radiance. 

She was waiting for Eric to come. He had 
stayed in Somersetshire a day or two longer 
than he intended, but he had written to say 
that he would come this afternoon. There had 
been something a little reserved about the let- 
ter, as if he had some project on hand which 
was too secret for him to divulge as yet; she 
wondered a little what it could be. 

When he came the light had faded out of 
the western sky and the violet curtain of cloud 
had closed across it as over some gigantic 
window. 

She half rose from her seat by the fire. 

“Dreaming, Melisande?” he said gently. 

“Mrs. Grayle was dreadfully shocked to 
hear you call me that,” she said, with a smile. 
She switched on the light in a little lamp by 
her side. 

“I can not tell you how she alarmed me,” he 
said. “She seemed a terrible woman. I was 
almost afraid to venture here again.” 

“Oh, you need not be afraid. She has gone 
back to Elsham now. I am sorry, though, that 
you came at such an unpropitious moment. 
She had taken it into her head that I ought not 
to live alone at Middlecombe. Her daughter 


ONLY ANNE 


337 


is going to marry one of my cousins, and some 
one had asked her if he was any relation to the 
eccentric Miss Travers who lived alone at Mid- 
dlecombe. Mrs. Grayle said that this reflected 
upon the family, and she evidently thought she 
would be able to hide my eccentricity more ef- 
fectually at Elsham.” 

“But I hope you didn’t give in?” 

“No; why should I? I should not dream of 
taking her advice.” 

“I am glad of that,” he said simply. “I 
should be very sorry if for any reason in the 
world you left Middlecombe.” 

“Now, do tell me your news,” said Anne. 
“You have been away quite a long time.” 

“I had business to settle,” said Eric gravely; 
“but it is practically finished now, and I have 
come to tell you about it.” 

“Is it about Sir Anthony?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. 

She waited for him to speak. 

“You know I don’t believe — I never have 
believed — that he is dead,” said Eric. “And I 
have made up my mind to go and look for him, 
to follow the route he took until I get some 
confirmation. Even if there is only a ghost of 
a chance, it seems worth while to try. And, in 
any case, if I start now, I shall meet Graham 


338 


ONLY ANNE 


on his way back. I mean to start to-morrow; 
I have been getting ready all day!” 

Anne listened like one in a dream. She won- 
dered if Eric, in brooding too deeply over the 
death of his friend and comrade, had taken mo- 
mentary leave of his senses. 

“Can not you be serious — even about this?” 
she said, almost involuntarily. 

The pain his words had evoked stabbed at 
her heart hke a knife. 

“And you think I am not serious?” said Eric. 
He had never heard her speak so bitterly be- 
fore. 

“If he were not dead, if there were the slight- 
est chance of his still being alive, do you not 
suppose the whole world would have known of 
it by this time? All the papers say there is, 
humanly speaking, no doubt about it at all. It 
is not as if he were some one quite unknown. 
Surely, inquiries must have been made out 
there — before such a telegram would have been 
sent to the papers.” 

Eric stared at her in amazement. And again 
the fear came to him that she had secretly 
loved this man — else why should she speak now 
with such sharp cruelty? 

“I don’t believe he is dead,” repeated Eric 
stubbornly. “I have heard his voice — he called 


ONLY ANNE 339 

me — it woke me. Dead men don’t call. I am 
going to find him!” 

“You were dreaming,” said Anne coldly. 
“You have been thinking of him so much that 
you dreamed about him.” 

Yet he had spoken with such conviction that 
she found it hard not to believe that which was, 
on the face of it, unbelievable. 

“From the first moment I felt that it was 
my duty to go,” said Eric, “and it was for that 
reason I went home to consult my father. I 
could not do it without his help. Such things 
are very costly. He did not require much per- 
suasion, and he is going to pay the whole cost. 
He is a rich man, and he is giving me practi- 
cally a free hand. I feel as if I could never be 
grateful enough to him.” 

“It is very good of him,” said Anne quietly. 

She saw now that he was desperately in 
earnest. 

“I shall be off early in the morning,” he con- 
tinued; “I’ve got my kit together. If there is 
news I can have it cabled to me at the various 
ports. My father will see to all that. I really 
think he would have liked to come, too; he was 
so keen about it. But you do think I’m right, 
don’t you? You don’t look upon me as mad? 
I know there isn’t much chance; but even so, 


340 


ONLY ANNE 


one ought not to leave any stones unturned. 
And things are easier to bear when one is up 
and doing!” 

His eager young face was radiant with hope ; 
his blue eyes were aflame. 

When one is up and doing. Yes, there was 
truth in those words. She could only sit over 
her fire and wait and wait — for the news that 
now would never come — the glad news of his 
safe return. 

“Say you think there is a little chance, Me- 
lisande!” he said entreatingly. 

She frowned, looking like a child grappling 
with some difficult problem, her low, square 
brow wrinkled under the heavy, dark shadow of 
her hair. 

“If I could truthfully say so, I should be 
very glad,” she answered. 

What would it mean to Myrtle if he were 
right — if those far-off forests should restore 
Anthony to her? She seemed to picture him 
coming as Myrtle had often dreamed that he 
would come, with all the barriers broken down 
between them and their long love. 

“Don’t look so strangely,” said Eric; “you 
spend too much time alone !” 

“My dreams are not half so wild as yours,” 
said Anne sadly. Her dreams had never 


ONLY ANNE 


341 


brought to her the sound of Anthony’s voice 
out of the vast and trackless silences that en- 
veloped him. 

Suddenly Eric rose and came over to her 
side. 

“Melisande,” he said in an oddly controlled 
voice, “you know now, don’t you, that I love 
you — that I want you to be my wife? I love 
you very much, and I have told my father so — 
and he is pleased. While I am away I shall 
dream always of coming back to you. On the 
sea — in the desert — in the forests — I shall 
dream always of you. And you? What are 
you going to say to me?” 

“I think I am past all dreams of that kind, 
Eric,” she said, calling him for the first time 
by his Christian name. 

“But you will not forbid me to dream,” he 
said. His voice had a thick, strained sound, 
his eyes a heavy look, as of unshed tears. The 
sight of his emotion hurt her. He had been 
so kind to her. He had helped her across that 
bridge of nightmare pain that she had been 
compelled to traverse. She knew that she had 
leaned upon him ; yet she had been almost care- 
less of his selflessness, his indifference to his 
own hurt. 

“No,” he said, “you must not answer me 


342 


ONLY ANNE 


now. You must not kill my hopes and my 
dreams, Melisande. I must have them with me 
to give me courage. I must feel all the time 
that I am coming back to you.” 

She sat very still, gazing into the fire. The 
last words of love she had heard had been An- 
thony’s ; she was thinking of them now. They 
came back to her like a stabbing of a knife in 
an old, incurable wound. 

Yet she felt it would be cruel to answer Eric 
now and send him away quite without hope. 

He would learn in those days of absence to for- 
get her. Let him go with the hope in his 
heart ; it might give him a little more courage, 
a little more determination to succeed in his 
mission. It was such a slight little thing and 
would certainly prove quite ineffectual, but if 
he thought it would increase his nerve, 
strengthen his purpose, and sustain him in that 
desperate, forlorn resolve to find, somewhere 
in the fastnesses of those untraveled for- 
ests, the body of Anthony Egerton, or 
the grave where that body had been laid, 
she dared not by any word of hers deprive 
him of it. I 

“And if I bring him back?” he said slowly, j 
watching her. j 

She was very pale and her eyes were grave. j 


ONLY ANNE 343 

“That will mean great happiness for one 
person,” she said quietly. 

Again the belief that Anne had loved him 
secretly possessed Eric. Yet he had seen her 
immovably calm when he had first told her the 
news of his death ; he had watched her closely 
as far as he dared, knowing how greatly his 
own future happiness might depend upon what 
he should learn of her then. But she had never 
made any sign; her face, always so controlled, 
was, perhaps, a little more definitely, frozenly 
calm, and neither in her eyes nor in her voice 
had there been the least suggestion of tears. 
Only between herself and him there was an in- 
visible barrier of whose nature he could hazard 
no guess, and he could only diagnose it as an 
unspoken devotion to something or some one 
else. Had not his mother once pitifully 
warned him — with the instinctive knowledge 
women sometimes possess of the hidden laby- 
rinths of each other’s hearts — not to stake his 
happiness upon the girl at the cottage? Had 
she not said that such a lonely, secluded life, 
such as Anne was voluntarily living, was only 
possible to a woman who had given her heart, 
perhaps, in vain, and for whom the rest of the 
world had ceased to exist? 

Eric was completely puzzled, and he dared 


344 


ONLY ANNE 


not seek enlightenment of her. Yet if she 
loved this man who was supposed to be dead, 
would she not at last betray the secret so jeal- 
ously kept from curious eyes? Eric had al- 
ways known that there was a woman in An- 
thony’s life, although of her identity he was 
still quite uncertain. And whatever there had 
been between them — whatever of love or joy or 
sadness — there must manifestly have also been 
some strong, arbitrary barrier that divided 
them. 

“I hope,” she said, ‘‘that you will bring him 
back. And remember, you have always my 
prayers.” 

When he said good-by to her his eyes were 
shining like lamps; his face was aglow with 
emotion. He dragged her hand to his lips and 
kissed it passionately. 

“Melisande,” he said, and his voice trembled 
a little, “I may write to you, may I not?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“This is good-by,” he said, “perhaps, for a 
long time.” 

“Good-by,” said Anne. 

When he had gone she felt a little stunned 
and bewildered. She stood there for some 
minutes exactly as he had left her, without 
stirring. Then she moved nearer to the light 


ONLY ANNE 


345 


and looked at her hand. His kisses had left a 
burning, scarlet mark — almost like a wound — 
across its whiteness. She was sure of his love 
— therein lay the pain — as she had never been 
sure of Anthony Egerton’s. 

She felt now almost angry with herself that 
she had let Eric go away with this hope in his 
heart. She had been too weak to answer him 
straightforwardly; she had not told him that 
she did not love him and could never love him. 

""And if I bring him hack?"* Surely, there 
had been a thousand questions hidden in that 
one question. It was exactly as if he had said 
quite plainly to her: ‘‘What is this man to 
you ? What will his coming mean to me ? Will 
it give you the happiness I can never give?” 

Not many people, she thought, would have 
found it impossible to love Eric Brettingham. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


“You are very late this evening,” said Myrtle, 
when Anne arrived at Brook Street. “I was 
beginning to give you up. Dinner is just 
ready.” 

“I meant to come earlier, but Eric Bretting- 
ham came, and he stayed so long I could not 
get away. You see, he came to say good-by,” 
she added timidly. 

“To say good-by?” echoed Myrtle. “Why, 
where is he going?” 

“He has an idea that Sir Anthony is not 
dead,” said Anne, with downcast eyes. “And 
he is starting to-morrow to go and look for 
him. He says he knows the route so well; he 
was there once before. He went down to Mid- 
dlecombe to ask Sir Joshua to help him, and 
he has been given a free hand. But the author- 
ities have told him plainly that there is no rea- 
sonable doubt as to the truth of the report.” 

“And do you mean to tell me that he is really 
going?” said Myrtle in an amazed tone. 

“Yes; he starts to-morrow morning.” 

“And you think he believes that Anthony is 
alive?” 

“I think he really believes it,” said Anne. 

346 


ONLY ANNE 


347 


“I do not,” said Myrtle. “I am quite sure 
he is dead. But he will be happier, I suppose, 
if he makes quite certain. One is so afraid al- 
ways that something has been left undone, 
some clue not followed up.” She spoke mus- 
ingly. “And anything is better than uncer- 
tainty. He must be very fond of him — very 
devoted to him!” 

Her gray eyes, under the fringe of long 
lashes, looked like cold, still pools; there was 
no hint of emotion in them. They had never 
been so tearless as during these days of bitter 
and frozen grief. 

“It is curious,” she went on, “how attached 
people were to Tony. He seemed so indiffer- 
ent — so aloof from human affection — disliking 
that any one should know him well, just as if 
he had been packed up in a shell.” 

“Eric had been with him sometimes when he 
had bouts of fever. He had helped to nurse 
him. And, of course, when you are away in 
the wilds for months at a time, you can not help 
being on rather intimate terms with your com- 
panions.” 

“I suppose not,” she said, “except that Tony 
never spoke about himself to any one. He was 
encased in armor, as if he were afraid of being 
wounded.” 


348 


ONLY ANNE 


Yes, he had guarded against chance sword- 
thrusts, as all must do who have something hid- 
den in their hearts. It has been truly said that 
a man or woman with a secret makes no inti- 
mate friends. 

“Well, Nancy, have you nothing else to tell 
me? Did your Eric go away without a word?” 

Anne flushed a little. 

“He did ask me to marry him, if you mean 
that. Myrtle,” she said, rather reluctantly. 

“And what did you say to that, Nancy?” 

“I do not think I said anything. He even 
asked me not to give him an answer now. I 
suppose he guessed what it would be. I hadn’t 
the courage to tell him ; it was a mistake, per- 
haps. But he did not want to go away with- 
out any hope, and I felt that I could not be 
cruel. I do not want to marry him, and I am 
sure he guessed it.” 

“What a strange child you are, Nancy! 
Surely, you like Eric? And I am sure he must 
be very fond of you from what you tell me. 
Why don’t you think about it?” 

She had often wondered why Anne did not 
marry. Suitors poor and rich there had been, 
ever since Anne first came out. And surely, it 
would be far better for her than leading this 
aimless, solitary life at Middlecombe. Like 


ONLY ANNE 


349 


many women who are unhappily married, Myr- 
tle still clung to an implicit belief in the poten- 
tialities of happiness to be derived under more 
favorable circumstances from marriage. It 
was a subject upon which she was quite free 
from bitterness. She had made her own indi- 
vidual mistake with her eyes open. She had 
married for wealth and position, and at the 
time had almost succeeded in convincing her- 
self that her feeling for Anthony had only been 
a brief and fugitive madness of her eighteenth 
year. 

And although she did not know Eric, she 
was sure that he was charming and worthy of 
Anne. That Anthony had evidently liked him 
gave him an added charm in her eyes. But 
perhaps he was still a little too much of the 
beautiful boy for Anne’s taste. Anne was too 
staid and serious for her years; she would be 
happier, perhaps, with an older man. The old 
disquieting wonder as to whether there had 
ever been anything between her and Anthony 
came back very forcibly to Myrtle then. An- 
thony was dead — “the man who was none of 
hers” — yet she wished to believe that he had 
gone to his grave still caring only for herself. 

She had not deserved his long and selfless 
devotion. She had not been true to him. She 


350 


ONLY ANNE 


had flung him aside after a week’s secret en- 
gagement to marry Lord Chard. And An- 
thony had gone away hitter and angry, resolv- 
ing never to see her again. F aithless and heart- 
less as he believed her to be, he tried to put the 
image of her out of his heart. But when he re- 
turned after several years he found that she 
was bitterly unhappy. And from that day he 
had made her believe always in his silent devo- 
tion, of which he had, nevertheless, uttered no 
word. But she had valued it all the more be- 
cause her life at that time had been destitute 
of any joy or happiness. It had sustained her 
through her worst hours. She could not give 
up his memory even to another woman. 

‘'Don’t you ever intend to marry, Nancy?” 
she said. “I think you are the sort of person 
who might be very happy ; things always go so 
smoothly with you!” 

“I don’t think I shall ever marry now,” said 
Anne quietly. 

“You will get tired of being alone one of 
these days,” said Myrtle. 

“I am so free,” said Anne; “it is a very bad 
thing for a girl, I think; one can not endure 
the prospect of having any kind of fetters when 
one has enough money to live alone and do ex- 
actly what one pleases.” 


ONLY ANNE 


351 


“Yes,” said Myrtle; “but if you fell in love 
you would soon forget those ideas.” 

“I suppose I shall really have to leave Mid- 
dlecombe,” said Anne, after a pause. 

“Well, you can hardly go on living at the 
very doors of a man who has asked you to 
marry him and whom you have refused,” said 
Myrtle; “but I hope myself you will think bet- 
ter of it. I suppose he doesn’t mind about the 
religion? Or do you think his people would 
object?” 

“They don’t seem to mind. He told me he 
had spoken to his father, and that he seemed 
pleased,” said Anne. 

“And even then you didn’t tell that it was 
hopeless for him to think about it?” said Myr- 
tle, in a tone of surprise. 

“Please do not blame me. Myrtle. I think 
you would have done as I did had you been in 
my place. He seemed so very unhappy about 
Sir Anthony, and he begged me not to send 
him away without any hope. He said if he 
only had this hope, it would give him cour- 
age.” 

“How like a man,” said Myrtle; “they are 
so quick to find a weak spot in one’s armor. So 
you agreed without a protest?” 

“I’m afraid I did,” said Anne. “I chose 


352 


ONLY ANNE 


the line of least resistance. There seemed 
nothing else to be done. I can always run 
away and — hide!” 

“Yes; you have had previous experience of 
that maneuver,” said Myrtle calmly. 

“Or,” said Anne, “I could come and live per- 
manently in town again.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t like that,” said Myrtle 
quickly; “you are a regular country-mouse.” 

When Anne went home that evening she 
thought a good deal about Myrtle’s words. It 
was true that life at Middlecombe would no 
longer be such a simple thing on account of 
Eric, and if she moved, she could scarcely avoid 
returning to Elsham, unless she wished to in- 
cur the combined disapproval of Mrs. Grayle 
and Uncle Vin. Perhaps, under the circum- 
stances, she might contemplate the desirability 
of going abroad for a time. But Myrtle would 
probably disapprove of such a plan. The prob- 
lem was becoming a difficult one, and she knew 
that she should not care to live permanently 
in town. There was, alas! no reason now to 
prevent her from doing this. The man from 
whom she had tried to escape was dead. An- 
thony’s death had removed the only hindrance, 
the only obstacle. Then she began to think 


ONLY ANNE 


353 


of him, and it seemed to her almost as. if he 
were near her in the solitude and silence of her 
little room. And Eric had resolved to go and 
seek him ! What news would he bring back — 
what details of that forlorn death? Myrtle’s 
restrained grief; her own sorrow, which she 
dared not reveal to any one; Eric’s wild pro- 
ject, which for the moment had made her al- 
most feel as if the report had really been a false 
one — all these things filled her thoughts. Hers 
had been a happy and tranquil life until last 
summer; now it seemed to be filled only with 
tragic happenings. It was impossible to look 
forward. Only she knew that some day — on 
a not too far distant one perhaps — Eric would 
come back and demand her answer; she could 
picture him standing in front of her, saying: 
“I have come for my answer, Melisande!” 
Yes, she could almost hear him saying the 
words, his blue eyes aflame, his delicately cut 
face pale with emotion and eagerness. And 
she knew that she could never have but the one 
answer for him. 

It was possible, too, that in the future Myr- 
tle might need her much more. In the event of 
Lord Chard’s death she would probably turn 
to Anne, and make heavy demands upon her 
time. It was idle to make plans for the future 


354 


ONLY ANNE 


when her whole life seemed to be in such a cha- 
otic state of upheaval and devasting sadness. 

One thing only was certain: that she must 
leave Middlecombe before Eric’s return. That 
could not be for several months to come, un- 
less he had very definite confirmation of Sir 
Anthony’s death before he started on his ex- 
pedition into the interior. It would not be pos- 
sible, perhaps, to avoid an interview with him 
if he still persisted in his wish to marry her. 
She had behaved like a coward, and she would 
have, perhaps, to pay heavily for that moment 
of cowardice. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


On the following afternoon Anne received an 
unexpected visit from Lady Brettingham and 
Elf. They had come up to town to bid Eric 
farewell. Poor Lady Brettingham was evi- 
dently greatly upset at losing her beloved son 
again so soon, and he had done his best to dis- 
suade her from undertaking the harrowing 
journey and from witnessing his departure. 

He had left in the morning for Marseilles, 
and Sir Joshua had accompanied him as far as 
Paris. Lady Brettingham sought out Anne in 
the hope of deriving some comfort from her. 

“Anne is always so reposeful,” she said. 
“Really it quite upset me to hear all Mrs. Vi- 
pan’s melancholy prophecies. She declared 
that it was most senseless and foolhardy of 
Eric to go on such an expedition, which had al- 
ready cost one valuable life ; she made me feel 
as if Eric was certain to share poor Sir An- 
thony’s fate!” 

Mrs. Vipan lived in Bath in one of its numer- 
ous crescents; she was a lady of some impor- 
tance in that demure city and, being acquainted 
with both the Brettinghams and the Grayles, 
355 


356 


ONLY ANNE 


she managed to convey a good deal of gossip 
to Elsham, and it was she who had made that 
unfortunate allusion to Anne’s eccentric con- 
duct. 

“The whole thing has been like a bad 
dream,” said Lady Brettingham, almost in 
tears as she greeted the girl, kissing her with 
hysterical effusion. “First, poor Sir An- 
thony’s death — and with the news coming to us 
as it did on that hateful tape-machine! I have 
not dared go near it since, and I wish it would 
get out of order and stop its horrid ticking! 
Joshua refuses to get rid of it, and it is getting 
quite on my nerves ; I seem to be able to hear 
it all over the house, which you know is quite 
impossible, my dear Anne! But he says he 
should soon be ruined if he did not know the 
daily quotation, and, of course, it would be 
very awkward for us to lose our money now on 
account of the boys, who both require so much, 
what with one thing and the other. My only 
comfort is that the prospect of going has 
cheered poor Eric so much; he looked quite 
happy again, and he has felt his friend’s death 
so very much. He seemed quite convinced, too, 
that Sir Anthony is not really dead at all.” 

“I am afraid no one else has a shadow of 
doubt about it,” said Anne, who was becoming 


ONLY ANNE 


357 


so accustomed to discussing Sir Anthony in 
this dispassionate way that it had almost 
ceased to hurt her across her frozen numb- 
ness. 

“Eric gets these wild ideas into his head, and 
then nothing will change his opinion,” said 
Lady Brettingham. “I am so thankful to 
think that poor Sir Anthony had absolutely no 
one belonging to him — no parents or wife or 
brothers and sisters — only one little nephew, 
who is quite a child. That is just the kind of 
man who can serve the Empire best,” she went 
on, putting her handkerchief again to her eyes 
as she remembered how unsuited was Eric, as 
the elder and beloved son, to follow in his foot- 
steps. “I am not minimizing the loss, which 
must be, of course, very great to all his inti- 
mate friends. But there is no one, happily, 
very near or dear to mourn for him, which is a 
comfort to think of now!” 

It seemed to Anne as if every one she saw 
stabbed her anew. “No one very near or dear!” 
Her face was very calm as she heard these 
words, and Lady Brettingham had no idea of 
the great hurt in her heart as she listened in 
that grave way of hers. 

“Who is his heir? For, I suppose, he must 
have made a lot of money.” 


358 


ONLY ANNE 


“His brother’s son, a little boy, who is also 
called Anthony,” said Anne. 

“Oh, that is the nephew who has been men- 
tioned, I suppose,” said Lady Brettingham. 
“We never knew much about his people; he 
did not ever speak of them.” 

“Shall you stay long in town?” Anne asked. 

“For some weeks, I hope,” said Lady Bret- 
tingham. “The weather has been so cold at 
Middlecombe, and everything has contrived to 
make the place so gloomy, that we shall not go 
back at present. We had meant to go to the 
Riviera, but now I could not endure to leave 
London. I must he on the spot on Eric’s ac- 
count.” 

“I am to have violin lessons again,” said 
Elf ; “and perhaps I shall start singing. Papa 
is simply delighted, because, when he comes 
back from Paris, he will be able to go down to 
the city every day — that is his one idea of en- 
joyment — and then he will listen to music half 
the night. Anne, who is that lovely girl?” 

She had been wandering round the room in- 
specting everything with the assurance of a 
privileged visitor, and had now paused in front 
of a delicately wrought pastel portrait of Myr- 
tle Chard. 


ONLY ANNE 


359 


The coloring was only slightly indicated; it 
had been the work of an almost unknown ar- 
tist, but Anne had liked it better than any por- 
trait she had ever seen of Myrtle. It was a 
thing of dreams; the man had been curiously 
successful in representing her fragile, strange 
loveliness. 

“That is Lady Chard,” said Anne, smiling. 

“How beautiful she is! Is she really like 
that?” 

“Yes, she is very like that; but her hair is 
brighter and a little darker.” 

She could not help smiling at Elf’s eager en- 
thusiasm. 

“Does she live in London? I should like to 
see her!” 

“She is in town now. Once she came to see 
me at Middlecombe; if she comes again ym 
shall see her.” 

“Oh, I should love that!” said Elf. 

“She is very unhappy and anxious now 
about her husband,” said Anne; “he is very ill. 
He has rallied now, but a few days ago we 
thought he was going to die.” 

“How dreadfully sad,” said Elf; “and she 
looks so young, too. Is she very, very devoted 
to him?” 


360 


ONLY ANNE 


Lady Brettingham, who knew something of 
the Chards by repute, checked her daughter 
somewhat peremptorily. 

“My dear Elf, you will tire poor Anne to 
death with your ceaseless questions. Do be 
quiet, dear!” 

“I can’t help feeling interested in her, 
mother,” said Elf, in her old-fashioned way, 
and continuing to examine the portrait with 
admiration. “Do you see her very often, 
Anne? Is she a great friend of yours?” 

“Well, I suppose she is,” said Anne, smil- 
ing; “we were at school together. And I see 
her most days when we are both in town.” 

Elf sat down near the portrait. 

“Oh, and there is something else I have been 
simply dying to tell you, Anne,” she went on ; 
“it is quite my own discovery. It is a secret, of 
course ; but I expect mother knows all about it. 
It is about you, Anne ; so you must not be an- 
gry! I am positively certain that Eric is in 
love with you. And I am so very anxious to 
know if you are in love with him, and if you 
mean to marry him!” 

Both Lady Brettingham and Anne were mo- 
mentarily struck dumb by Elf’s indiscreet 
speech. She seemed, however, quite uncon- 
cerned, and looked at Anne attentively. 


ONLY ANNE 


361 


“For I should simply love to have you for 
a sister-in-law,” she pursued; “although I have 
always thought no one in the world would be 
quite good enough for Eric ” 

Lady Brettingham was crimson with anger. 

“Elf,” she said, “be quiet at once. How 
dare you say such things? I shall never bring 
you out again. Go over there and look at 
those picture papers, if Anne will let you, and 
don’t let me hear you speak again !” 

She had been wondering all the time how 
she could secure an opportunity of approach- 
ing Anne on this very subject in a manner that 
would not offend her. And now Elf had ab- 
ruptly plunged into the very path she had 
feared to tread lest she should not go delicately 
enough. 

Elf had retired into the far corner of the 
room, feeling a little alarmed. She was aware 
by this time that she had said something ex- 
tremely rash and indiscreet. It was seldom 
that her mother rebuked her, for she had al- 
ways been spoiled and indulged by both her 
parent, as well as by her brothers. 

Lady Brettingham drew up her chair closer 
to Anne’s, and, bending toward her, said in 
a gentle undertone: 

“You must forgive Elf, my dear Anne; it 


362 


ONLY ANNE 


was very tactless of her, but she is so young. I 
have been longing to speak to you about it my- 
self, so I can hardly blame her. I am sure 
that it can be no secret to you that Eric is 
devoted to you, and he did say something 
both to his father and to me before he went 
away.” 

Anne was silent. 

“He said he had asked you not to give him a 
decided answer until he came back. Anne, I 
think he has been in love with you ever since he 
first saw you.” 

Still she was silent. If only she had given 
Eric his answer yesterday she would have been 
saved from this complication. But he had 
pleaded so that she should not kill his hope be- 
fore he started, and that had made her keep 
silence. At the moment it had touched her 
deeply, and she had submitted to his wish from 
a vague desire not to give him pain. She had 
not foreseen all the difficulties that would 
arise. 

“I was so afraid that he was only clinging 
to false hopes,” said Lady Brettingham. 

“I did not give him any answer because he 
asked me not to,” said Anne desperately, and 
hoping that Elf, whose golden head was bent 
demurely over the picture papers, could not 


ONLY ANNE 


363 


hear the conversation. “I believe now that I 
made a mistake. It implied that I had not 
come to a decision — and I had.” 

Lady Brettingham was quick to grasp the 
true state of affairs. And had she not always 
warned him — always told him that Anne was 
not for him? 

“My dear, you could hardly have done other- 
wise, and I don’t blame you, and you have 
sent him away very happy, for which I thank 
you. I have seen all along how it was with 
Eric, and I felt from the first that your affec- 
tions were already engaged; that you could 
never give him what he wanted. If he had 
come into your life earlier, I am sure you must 
have cared for him. It is not your fault that 
he came too late!” 

She spoke so kindly that Anne was quite 
touched, in spite of herself, and at that mo- 
ment she liked Lady Brettingham better than 
she had ever done before. 

When they had gone Anne went to the mir- 
ror and looked at herself with a curious in- 
tentness. She wondered very much what it was 
that made people care for her. She had often 
felt herself to be so quiet as to be almost dull; 
she had always imagined men must find her 
stupid. She had often envied those gay, amus- 


364 


ONLY ANNE 


ing women who could chatter nonsense and 
make others laugh. 

“You will have to vanish again before he 
comes back — and then, perhaps, he will write, 
and you can write your answer and tell him it is 
impossible,” she said, addressing that rather 
wan vision in the glass. 

Yet she knew that not only would she hurt 
Eric, but that she would also, by refusing him, 
disappoint his parents and sister. And she 
liked them all too much not to feel aghast at 
the prospect. 

“My dear Nancy, you have only got your- 
self to thank,” said Myrtle, rather unsympa- 
thetically, when Anne related the substance of 
the interview with Lady Brettingham. “Why 
on earth didn’t you tell him straight out that 
you didn’t care for him, and didn’t mean to 
marry him? It would have been far kinder and 
would have saved you a lot of trouble. And 
from all I can hear, you gave him a good deal 
of encouragement when you were down at 
Middlecombe!” 

“You are as bad as Mrs. Vipan,” said Anne, 
laughing. 

“You are a hopeless person; you can not go 
anywhere without picking up a young man of 


ONLY ANNE 


365 


sorts, and then you are always so astonished 
when they fall in love with you. However, no 
doubt you will find a way of dealing quite ade- 
quately with the situation when your dear Eric 
comes back. I shouldn’t be very much sur- 
prised if you ended by marrying him so as to 
spare yourself the pain of hurting his feelings. 
It is a shame to tease you, Nancy, but I do so 
enjoy seeing you for once deviating from the 
appropriate path. I have myself so often wan- 
dered in the by-ways of unwisdom 1” she added 
bitterly. 

“You are right; I always mismanage these 
things,” said Anne. “I do not know how it is; 
perhaps it is because I am so blind to them 
right up to the end !” 

“I shall not like giving you up, even to 
Eric,” said Myrtle. “I am getting to depend 
upon you more and more.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


The weeks passed and little news was heard 
of Eric. He wrote a few lines from every 
port, and his letters were always eager and full 
of hope. Anne did not show the letters to 
Myrtle; sometimes she did not even mention 
that she had received them. It was almost im- 
possible to read them and not be imbued with 
something of Eric’s conviction, his intense be- 
lief that Anthony was still alive. It was easy 
to see that Myrtle herself had no hope of the 
kind, and it would be cruel to awaken such a 
thing in her heart. It was, perhaps, well for 
her that her thoughts were now completely dis- 
tracted from all other subjects by her hus- 
band’s condition. She was wholly occupied 
with nursing him. 

As the spring advanced it became apparent 
to all those around him that there was a visible 
slackening of his already slender hold upon 
life; he grew perceptibly weaker, and the ex- 
traordinary rallies which had at once surprised 
and perplexed his physicians no longer super- 
vened upon his bad attacks. It was evident 
366 


ONLY ANNE 


36T 


that the disease from which he was suffering, 
and which had been continuously kept at bay 
by every means that modern surgery could sug- 
gest, had at last so undermined his constitu- 
tion that it was incapable of repelling further 
attacks of severe suffering. He was practi- 
cally kept alive on the enormous doses of 
opium he had for so long been in the daily 
habit of swallowing. 

Everything was changed. He could no 
longer endure the sound of the traffic; even a 
sudden movement in the room made him wince 
as if he had been struck. He had been moved 
to a room nearly at the top of the house and 
at the back of it, so that scarcely any sound ^ 
of the traffic could reach his ears. Myrtle fully 
realized that the end was now rapidly ap- 
proaching. 

“I am dying, my dear Myrtle,’’ he said to 
her one morning, in his abrupt, unexpected 
fashion, “and I think, on the whole, that I 
should very much prefer to die at Chardford. 
Will you make arrangements to take me down 
there soon, please?” 

“Will Monday do?” said Myrtle, who was 
accustomed to his brutal candor, which now 
had almost ceased to repel her. 

“Monday will do admirably. To-day is Eri- 


368 


ONLY ANNE 


day, is it not? I am glad you recognize the un- 
desirability of delay. The pleasures of pro- 
crastination are quite denied to me now.” He 
watched her face to observe the effect of his 
words upon her. 

She looked, however, quite undisturbed, and 
only said: 

“May Anne come?” 

“By all means bring Anne,” he said; “you 
will want somebody with you, and there are 
fewer objections to Mouse than to any one else. 
She is always quiet, and I like her to read 
to me.” 

Everything was arranged for the journey 
on the following Monday. It was rather a 
tragic setting forth, for every one knew that, in 
all probability, it would be the last journey 
Lord Chard would ever make. For him there 
would be, humanly speaking, no returning; 
he was going home to die. It was, perhaps, 
only natural that he should choose to die in the 
home that had always been his, far down 
among the green and quiet folds of the Somer- 
setshire hills. 

Anne accompanied Myrtle to Paddington, 
as Lord Chard was escorted thither by his doc- 
tor and attendants. He was rather worse that 
morning, and as he lay there in the train he 


ONLY ANNE 369 

scarcely looked as if he would reach Chardford 
alive. 

Anne was not to travel with them, but had 
arranged to go down on the following day. 
Lord Chard reminded her of this promise as 
he lay there. 1 

“You must not disappoint us, Mouse,” he 
said, smiling at her in his strange, sophisti- 
cated, enigmatic way; “I am such bad com- 
pany for Myrtle now.” 

. “You know I always turn up, like a bad 
penny,” said Anne; “I am sure to come.” 

She thought he looked positively ghastly to- 
day. He was almost a skeleton; the lips had 
shrunk back from the teeth, accentuating their 
wolfish expression; his face was livid, and the 
immense eyes burned with a feverish brilliancy. 
All the bones of his face stuck out sharply; 
his hands were like claws and helplessly inert. 
He was dying by inches, and was, indeed, 
“tasting the whole of it.” No bitter drop or 
subtle agony was being spared him. 

Even now, with all his wrecked and ruined 
life, there was something great about him, a 
potential heroism that was not easy to destroy ; 
it was an echo of those brilliant days when he 
had played such a prominent part in the world 
of men, had known the sweets of triumph and 


370 


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success, had touched lightly and almost indif- 
ferently the splendid prizes for which he had 
striven. 

Some thought of this kind was in Anne’s 
mind as she stood there contemplating with 
pity this ‘‘life awry.” In his preternaturally 
quick way he interpreted the trend of her 
thoughts, caught at it, mocking her with an 
almost fiendish glee. 

“My dear Mouse, please do not be so sorry 
for me. I could never endure to be pitied!” 

“I was afraid you were in pain,” said Anne, 
with a quick flush at having her thoughts thus 
read. 

“Pity is wasted on me,” he said. “I have 
had everything that should command envy. It 
is cowardly to cavil at the manner of death. 
He has been threatening me for a good many 
years, and this time I suppose he means to 
have his own way. He has even tempted me 
with his own weapons, and some of them were 
sweet!” And he laughed in his shrill, mirth- 
less way, but the sound was so feeble now it 
was almost the laugh of a ghost. 

Myrtle came to the rescue. 

“Anne is always sorry for any one who is 
ill,” she said softly. “She is even sorry for me 
when I have neuralgia.” 


ONLY ANNE 


371 


“It is nearly time for the train to start,” he 
remarked. “This is a hateful journey, but I 
had a sentimental wish to see the old place 
again. Had you not better get out. Mouse, if 
you do not want to travel with us to-day ?” 

When Anne was on the platform Myrtle 
bent her head out of the window and whis- 
pered : 

“Pain always puts him in this sort of mood. 
He will have his dose of opium directly we 
start, and then I hope he will go to sleep. Well, 
we shall meet to-morrow, Nancy. I am glad 
you are coming.” 

She stooped down and kissed her. 

“It ought to be lovely at Chardford now,” 
she said; “the orchards will be in bloom. You 
like the country better than I do, Nancy; you 
are sure to enjoy it.” 

Chardford was certainly looking very beau- 
tiful when Anne arrived there on the follow- 
ing day. Myrtle had sent the motor to meet 
her, and they sped swiftly down the green 
lanes. A light westerly wind was blowing, 
soft and humid with Atlantic airs, and fresh- 
ened with the faint suggestion of brackishness 
which lends such a charm to the climate of the 
west. The April sun was brilliant, and a deli- 


372 


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cate mist of emerald, at once fugitive and defi- 
nite, hung upon the woods. The white curve 
of a river gleamed between twin rows of pol- 
lard willows, while the meadows that stretched 
away on each side of it were gay with flowers. 
On the Somersetshire orchards the frail blos- 
som hung in pink and white garlands, fragile 
as foam, while here and there a wild cherry-tree 
stood out conspicuously, clad in dainty silver- 
white array. A fragrance of violets filled the 
air, and along the banks the close carpet of 
primroses showed like thick clusterings of pale 
yellow stars. 

Chardford Manor had been built originally 
in Tudor times on a still older site ; indeed, leg- 
end had long insisted that a Roman villa had 
originally stood there, a supposition which had 
recently been verified by the discovery of a fine 
fragment of Roman pavement in lovely col- 
ored mosaics, very finely wrought. The Tu- 
dor part of the house had been carefully pre- 
served, and the facade was a singularly beauti- 
ful one. Much had been added to the original 
building, but fortunately the later parts, 
which had grown up gradually during the last 
three bunded years, were perfectly blended, 
and formed a fine and imposing pile, com- 
manding spacious views of the Mendips. 


ONLY ANNE 


373 


During the first days after his return home 
Lord Chard’s health improved sufficiently to 
admit of his driving slowly for about an hour 
daily. He went in a little pony-carriage, and 
in this way inspected almost the whole of his 
property. He also transacted a good deal of 
business and had quite long interviews with his 
agent. As his body weakened it seemed to 
those who were with him that his mind was in- 
formed with a renewed and redoubled energy 
and insight. No detail was too small or too 
unimportant for his consideration. His mind 
seemed to recover something of its lost habit 
and method of work. In the days of success 
he had always followed that aphorism which 
urges men not to trust to genius that which 
can be accomplished by diligence. And in his 
way he had been a genius, and glimpses of his 
power were still visible in his better hours, 
when he was neither rent with pain nor clouded 
by opium. 

When indoors, he lay on a huge couch in the 
library, which adjoined his bedroom on the 
ground floor, and into which he was wheeled 
daily. Owing to the unusual mildness of the 
weather and to the unusually long spells of 
sunshine, the long French windows were kept 
open for the greater part of the day. A big 


374 


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table covered with papers and books of all 
kinds stood near him. But the amount of time 
he gave to things of a purely business nature 
alarmed his wife. All work exhausted him. 

“Do let me put those papers away now, Pat. 
I’m sure you have done enough work to-day,” 
she said, going up to the table. 

He was making notes with a restless activ- 
ity, although his wasted hands were almost too 
weak to hold the pen, and his writing was inde- 
cipherable. 

“Certainly not — they are most important. 
The night cometh — you know. Myrtle.” He 
gave her an odd, quizzical glance. “The sands 
are getting a little low. Don’t you agree with 
me?” 

“They will get lower still if you exhaust 
yourself in this way,” she said coldly. 

“Have you seen this?” He indicated the 
recent number of a well-known review. “There 
is an account in it of some of poor Egerton’s 
explorations, especially those in Asia Minor.” 

“Is there?” she said indifferently. She felt 
that his eyes were searching her face. 

“You never mentioned his death,” he went 
on. 

She wondered if he were speaking thus on 
purpose to hurt her. Sometimes a malicious 


ONLY ANNE 


875 


impulse moved him to say wounding things 
when he was in great suffering. But, looking 
at him tranquilly, she thought there was some- 
thing to-day that was, perhaps, rather softened 
about him. 

‘‘If you remember, you were so very ill when 
the news came,” she said. 

“I beg your pardon — I was not so ill till the 
afternoon when Mouse sought to divert me 
with chess,” he replied. 

He watched her attentively, marveling at the 
unchanged serenity of her face. He had 
taught her many things. Self-control was one ; 
reticence another. 

“The fool was in love with you. I believe he 
was still in love with you,” he said remorse- 
lessly. 

“That was an old affair,” she said coldly; 
“before I knew you.” 

“But he didn’t marry you,” he said. 

“I — would not marry him,” she said. 

At least she had never told her husband that 
for a short week she and Anthony had been 
engaged, the happiest lovers in the world. 
With her own hands she had destroyed that 
palace of happiness. 

“It is a pity that he died just now,” he said. 
His face was pinched and sharp with a look of 


876 


ONLY ANNE 


pain. “You would, perhaps, have been hap- 
pier, Myrtle, all these years if you had married 
him.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“One can never tell,” she said. 

“You did not seem to care at all when he 
died,” he went on, as if trying to elicit the 
truth from her, stirred by some tardy jealousy 
of the man who was dead. “Sometimes I think 
you have no heart.” 

“I believe you are right, Pat,” she said. “I 
think I am made of stone.” 

No face of stone could have looked more un- 
moved than hers did at that moment. 

There was a pause. A light wind blowing 
in lifted some stray sheets of paper from the 
table and blew them onto the floor. Myrtle 
rose and, stooping, picked them up. She put 
them back on the table and laid a heavy bronze 
paperweight upon them. 

“How thin you are. Myrtle,” he said, look- 
ing at her hand, which in that moment had been 
so very near his own, so near that if he had 
not been so extremely weak, he could have 
touched it. He had never noticed before how 
sharply the little bones stuck out under the 
white, smooth skin. He had always admired 
his wife’s hands and had once delighted in giv- 


ONLY ANNE 


377 


ing her beautiful and curious rings to wear. 
She wore none now, except the wedding-ring, 
which had grown so loose. 

“I — I am not very fat,’’ she answered, with 
a smile. 

“Mouse must get you to eat more,” he said. 

“I don’t know what is the matter with 
Nancy,” she said, glad to turn his thoughts 
from herself ; “she doesn’t eat much, and I am 
sure she looks as if she didn’t sleep. And if 
you come upon her suddenly, she looks so 
dreadfully sad.” 

“Oh, that must be your imagination. Myrtle. 
If anything were worrying her she would be 
sure and tell you about it. I thought you told 
each other everything?” 

“I find — as one gets older — one does not tell 
anybody everything,” said Myrtle. 

He put aside his note-book and fountain pen. 

“Myrtle,” he said, “y^u will soon be quite 
free. Have you thought of that? I wonder 
what you will do with your freedom? I 
should so like to come back in six months and 
see! Convicts,” and he looked at her with one 
of his keen, strange glances, “after a long term 
of imprisonment are often bewildered when 
they regain their freedom ; it is well known that 
at Portland many continue to work in the 


378 


ONLY ANNE 


stone-quarries just as they did in the days of 
their servitude. Do you think you will go on 
working in the stone-quarries?” 

“Please don’t talk about it, Pat. You know 
I shall be utterly alone.” 

But he appeared to be bent on using this 
two-edged sword which stabbed both himself 
and his wife ; it was as if he held it with peculiar 
vindictiveness to his own heart. 

“Ah,” he said, with a gleam of mockery that 
was almost fierce in his dark eyes, “so you have 
got to like it in the dull, dumb-beast fashion of 
the convict!” 

There was an intolerable gibe in his voice. 
It was horrible to hear him question her about 
that future when he would no longer be there. 

“You were so rebellious once. I never 
thought you would be so completely broken 
in!” 

“Almost every one is rebellious at eighteen 
— demanding happiness as a right.” 

“I could have made you happy— if you had 
loved me,” he said; “as it was, I taught you 
philosophy. You were a singularly inapt pu- 
pil at first.” 

“Perhaps,” she retorted, with a flash of his 
own humor, “I learned to accustom myself to 
the stone-quarries !” 


ONLY ANNE 


379 


“That time you went away, Myrtle,” he re- 
minded her, and his voice was now oddly soft- 
ened, ‘T was glad when you came back.” 

“Glad?’ ’she echoed. His words had startled 
her. He had never mentioned the incident 
since it first happened. “I was glad when you 
came back.” He had never told her so before. 

She remembered it all as well as he did, and 
at that moment she seemed to be living over 
again that far-off but unforgotten scene. She 
could see again the dull spring evening, with 
the violet shadows deepening in street and 
square, the blinding glare of the electric light 
in the hall as the door was opened to her. She 
had been so dazzled, coming in like that out of 
the darkness, that it had been impossible to 
distinguish even her husband’s figure. She 
was alone, ?ind they were standing face to face. 
She was white and wretched with fright; she 
felt physically chilled; she had wondered then 
how she had ever found courage to leave him 
like that, and seek refuge with Anne, who had 
been so painfully perplexed, as well as dis- 
tressed, by this climax. And Lord Chard, too, 
could remember her standing there, white, 
limp, and inert ; looking for all the world like 
a tired and frightened child. Her hair had 
hung rather untidily in a glowing mass upon 


380 


ONLY ANNE 


her forehead; raindrops showed on her fur coat 
and glistened on her hat. To reproach her then 
would have been merely cruel, and he had not 
found it in his heart to utter one of the clever, 
brutal things he had meant to say in his wrath 
and bitter humiliation. She had come dread- 
ing his gibes and sneers, and he had only gazed 
at her quite gravely, surveying her with cold 
eyes ; he neither taunted nor mocked her. 
When he had spoken it had only been to 
say: 

“Dinner is ready. I am sure you must want 
something to eat. You look perfectly 
starved!” 

Myrtle gave a dull little laugh at the remem- 
brance of that scene that now was nearly eight 
years old. He thought she looked so like, yet 
so unlike, the girl of those days. She was far 
more beautiful now; far more patient and ten- 
der. Perhaps the rough work of the quarries 
had ceased to hurt her hands. But he had 
loved her just as much, perhaps even more, in 
those old moods of wild rebellion, when she 
had seemed to hate him. 

“Of course, you have had an awful time. 
Myrtle,” he said, in a tone of mock apology; 
“but perhaps you will be able to find happiness 
somehow. It isn’t really hard when one is only 


ONLY ANNE 381 

twenty-six, and rich, and free, and, well, and 
— beautiful!” 

She came over and stood by his side, half 
hesitating to speak. Yet surely she might ven- 
ture, seeing that he was in such a softened 
mood. 

“Father Brent is coming here to-morrow,” 
she said. “Anne was so anxious that we might 
have Mass here on Sunday. And I thought 
you might wish to see him.” 

“When the devil was sick, the devil a saint 
would be,” he said, with an echo of his shrill 
laugh. “I suppose that was your idea, my dear 
Myrtle. He is welcome to come as much as he 
likes, and if Mouse wants to have Mass here, 
she shall have it. But I am not going to see 
him, even to please you. And do not be so 
anxious about my soul.” 

But he was not angry, as hitherto he had al- 
ways been when such a thing had been sug- 
gested to him, and as if to reassure her on this 
point, he put out his hand and touched hers 
with tenderness. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


“Nancy, I have told him, and he didn’t seem 
to mind. And you know what a fuss there was 
last time,” said Myrtle, going up later to 
Anne’s room. “You must see that the chapel 
is quite in readiness for Father Brent. I ex- 
pect you will remember where everything is.” 

They went together downstairs to the little 
chapel that was situated in the oldest part of 
the house, and which, it was thought, might 
have been built at a prior date. During the 
old days of persecution it had been walled up, 
and it was only of comparatively recent years 
that the secret passage leading to it had been 
discovered, together with the sliding panel 
through which access had then been obtained 
by those of the faithful who were desirous of 
hearing Mass when to do that was a penal of- 
fense. Beyond, there had been a tiny cup- 
board, which had evidently served as a hiding- 
place for the priest, as it had a high shelf set 
in the vaulted roof capable of affording shelter 
to a man. Lord Chard, who had for many 
years quite ceased to practise his religion, had, 
nevertheless, had the place set in repair for 
382 


ONLY ANNE 


383 


his wife. Fragments of the old stained glass 
had been discovered in a disused cellar and 
much of it, being capable of restoration, had 
been replaced in the windows. 

“You must be sacristan, Nancy,” said Myr- 
tle ; “no one else knows anything about it, and 
I can never count on having the time.” 

“Of course I will, until I go to Middle- 
combe. You know I have promised to go over 
there for the night on Monday.” 

“Has their son come back?” asked Mj^rtle. 

“Oh, no,” said Anne; “that is partly why I 
have consented to go. They have not had any 
news of him since he started for the interior. 
That is two months ago. I think Lady Bret- 
tingham is getting anxious.” 

“Of course, you must go and cheer them up,” 
said Myrtle; “especially as you are going to 
be their daughter-in-law one of these days! 
And Pat is so much better. The doctor says 
there is no immediate danger, unless, of course, 
there was a sudden bad attack of pain and his 
heart failed. I have had a very trying morn- 
ing with him, Nancy.” She related part of 
the conversation. “I wish I could get him to 
see Father Brent.” 

“Yes, I wish you could. Oh, Myrtle, per- 
haps he will before the end!” 


384 


ONLY ANNE 


In spite of the improvement in Lord Chard’s 
condition, Anne left with some reluctance on 
Monday morning. Still, she would scarcely be 
gone twenty-four hours, and the doctor seemed 
to think there was no danger of any sudden col- 
lapse. She went to say good-by to him. 

“So you are deserting us. Mouse,” he said; 
“don’t be gone too long. I don’t want Myrtle 
to be alone, and I’d like to think you were with 
her. Still she tells me you feel obliged to make 
this run over to Middlecombe. It won’t take 
you long in the motor, and we shall see you 
back to-morrow. I shall miss our reading this 
afternoon.” 

“I shall be back early to-morrow afternoon, 
I hope,” said Anne. 

“You know, I used to think,” he said, with 
one of his sudden outbursts of alarming frank- 
ness, “that if anything happened to me. Myrtle 
would marry Egerton. But now he’s dead, 
too. After all, I shall have to leave her in your 
charge, you faithful little Mouse!” 

Lady Brettingham was delighted to see 
Anne again. They had not long returned to 
the Park, for it had been more difficult than 
usual to lure Sir Joshua away from London. 

“My dear Anne, how well you are looking,” 


ONLY ANNE 


385 


she said, coming down the steps from the front 
door to meet her. “I am so glad you were able 
to spare this one day. And Joshua is longing 
to hear you sing again — that poor tenor had to 
go away last week; he was so ill it was quite 
impossible for him to stay here, and we have 
sent him to a sanatorium. Elf is playing beau- 
tifully now, but she is so lazy she will never 
play enough to satisfy her father; he is, as you 
know, insatiable!” 

Anne knew that it could not be very long 
before Eric’s name was mentioned. This 
proved to be so. 

“As I told you in my letter, we have not had 
a line from Eric for quite two months. It is 
an appalling time, and Joshua made it the ex- 
cuse for staying in London; he said it was 
better to be on the spot, but I hardened my 
heart at last and insisted upon coming home. 
It is so much better for Elf to lead a quiet 
country life until she comes out. And I know 
you will laugh at me, Anne, but I have begun 
to study estate management. I have never 
been able to get Joshua to take an interest in 
it, and I felt sure that everything was going 
to rack and ruin, so I determined to hurl my- 
self into the breach and keep things straight 
for Eric.” 


386 ONLY ANNE 

Her large, good-natured face beamed kindly 
upon Anne. 

“Of course, there is no denying I have been 
very anxious about him,” she went on; “two 
months is such a long time to be quite without 
news. I do hope he will never go again after 
this. Mrs. Vipan — she is here now, Anne, and 
I am rather sorry, but she invited herself, and 
I did not like to refuse her — wanted me to con- 
sult a fortune-teller, a very clever one, who is 
staying in Bath just now. But I didn’t think, 
perhaps, it would be quite right. Besides, she 
might have told me something dreadful, and 
though I shouldn’t, of course, have believed 
her, it would have made me very unhappy! 
But I keep on feeling that we shall get news — 
good news — quite soon!” 

She chattered on so volubly that it was really 
unnecessary — even if it had not also been im- 
possible — for Anne to speak. 

“Well, we must have some music, and that 
will cheer Joshua; and I hope you will not dis- 
like Mrs. Vipan. She is a little trying, but she 
is a kind, good soul!” 

Sir Joshua was in one of his quiet moods, 
and he was delighted to see Anne. The party 
was only augmented by Mrs. Vipan and a 
large, very plain girl, with masses of coal- 


ONLY ANNE 


387 


black hair, who was said to possess a very fine 
contralto voice. Anne had never met Mrs. 
Vipan; they were introduced to each other in 
the drawing-room just before dinner. She was 
rather a lively person, whose age it would have 
been impossible and even impertinent to con- 
jecture, as she had evidently been at great 
pains to conceal all signs of advancing years. 
Her head was adorned with an unconvincing 
golden wig, beneath which no stray gray hairs 
were visible, and she wore a great deal of noisy 
jewelry, which rattled and jingled with her 
every movement. 

“I think I know your Elsham relations,” she 
said to Anne during dinner; “and we have a 
mutual friend, too, in Mrs. Grayle. Have you 
been to Elsham lately? It is such a charming 
place, I always think! And your uncle is so 
delightfully hospitable. I hear Mrs. Grayle is 
delighted at her younger daughter’s engage- 
ment.” 

“I believe she is,” said Anne. “You know 
she is going to marry my cousin?” 

“Yes, I heard he was a relation,” said Mrs. 
Vipan, looking innocence itself, much to 
Anne’s secret amusement. “It will be so nice 
for her mother to have her so close at hand, 
especially as the elder one is in India.” 


388 


ONLY ANNE 


“Is Lord Chard any better?” inquired Lady 
Brettingham presently. 

“Just for the moment; of course, it can only 
be a temporary improvement,” answered Anne. 

“I heard they had gone down to Chardford,” 
said Mrs. Vipan, who took the keenest interest 
in all country happenings, whether she knew 
the people concerned or not. “I used to know 
him slightly many years ago at Oxford. My 
father, who was a don there, used to consider 
him quite one of the most brilliant young men 
of his year. He was very charming and agree- 
able in those days, and every one used to say he 
would be one of the future prime ministers, and 
so I am sure he would have been if he had not 
taken to the drug habit when he was only 
thirty-six! A very sad life she must have had 
with him, although, of course, one could not 
call her a model wife. I have heard a great 
deal about her from Mrs. Grayle, who has, of 
course, known her intimately from her child- 
hood. Still, with all that money, she is sure to 
marry again.” 

“Do let me try and persuade you to eat one 
of these chestnut cutlets, Mrs. Vipan,” said Sir 
Joshua suddenly. He had quite recently be- 
come a vegetarian of the most pronounced 
type. He helped himself to some strange, 


ONLY ANNE 


389 


amorphous-looking substance of a dark-brown 
hue. “They are really excellent. The chest- 
nuts are especially prepared, and can be ob- 
tained in this form all the year round!” 

“Oh, no, thank you. Sir Joshua,” said Mrs. 
Vipan, in a tone of horror. ‘T don’t care about 
chestnuts!” Her golden wig assumed an angle 
suggestive of dismay, and she touched it into 
place with a nervous hand and wished there 
had been a mirror in front of her. 

“Not care about chestnuts!” he cried incred- 
ulously. “Nuts, my dear Mrs. Vipan, contain 
almost all the necessary nourishment for the 
human body. Nuts of all kinds, but par- 
ticularly chestnuts. Perhaps you are not aware 
that in some of the more remote villages of the 
Apennines they form the staple food of the 
peasants? Ah, if you could only see the error 
you make in consuming large quantities of 
meat — a heat-forming substance productive of 
all kinds of injurious acids, which lead in- 
evitably to the ghastly sequels of gout and 
rheumatism, and many skin and internal 
troubles !” 

“But I really eat very little meat,” said Mrs. 
Vipan, in a mildly remonstrative tone. 

“A purely vegetarian diet is the only one 
which can be relied upon to give us perfect 


390 


ONLY ANNE 


health — mens Sana in corpore sano^ he con- 
tinued, helping himself to another chestnut cut- 
let, as the dish was handed to him a second 
time. No one else, however, could be per- 
suaded to attempt one, at which his disappoint- 
ment was ill-concealed. “That mousse of foie 
gras which you are eating is most baleful in its 
effects upon your digestion!” 

“I am glad to say I have never suffered from 
indigestion,” said Mrs. Vipan, who would much 
rather have preferred to gossip about Lady 
Chard than discuss diet with Sir Joshua. 
Anne, who had been thankful for the turn the 
conversation had taken, could not help feeling 
amused at Mrs. Vipan’s firm resistance to her 
host’s appeal. 

He turned, therefore, to the singer. 

“Miss Royce, I wish I could convert you to 
the pure pleasures of vegetarianism,” he said 
good-humoredly. “I myself always eat two 
baked apples and an orange or banana and 
drink a glass of hot water for breakfast every 
morning, as well as a little porridge or some 
well-cooked gruel. No tea or coffee. Only 
stimulant in case of illness or by the doctor’s 
orders.” 

Once launched upon his favorite topic he was 
impossible to silence. 


ONLY ANNE 


391 


“These peas, now,” he went on, “what could 
be more delicious? I am glad to tell you that 
I have six gardeners who are no longer eating 
their heads off, for I have found employment 
for them all. A French garden — that is my 
latest hobby. These men are ordered to supply 
forced vegetables all the winter, and so far they 
have done very well. Really, you could hardly 
tell that these peas were forced, they have such 
a delicate flavor. We have tried all sorts of 
cooks, and I find it very difficult to get an 
English one to do the vegetables as they should 
be done, so we have a French one now, who at- 
tends exclusively to this branch. I am sure. Miss 
Royce, that your voice would greatly benefit 
by a strict adherence to a vegetable diet. You 
would never have those sore throats, from which 
you tell me you suffer so constantly during the 
winter in England. They all come from gout. 
Goutr he repeated the word with emphasis, 
“the great enemy of mankind. Our whole en- 
ergies should be concentrated upon resisting its 
onslaughts. The damp — did you say? Oh, 
that is absurd. It is only gout — gout, which 
permits the human frame to be susceptible to 
damp. If you were perfectly well and strong 
you would not fear a damp day more than a 
dry one. But you are not armed against the 


392 


ONLY ANNE 


enemy. You eat things which encourage him 
to attack you, or rather to attack the weakest 
organ, which is your throat!” 

“I was brought up in Italy; I am half 
Italian,” said the girl, who was shy and was 
also feeling a little strange. “I felt the damp 
and fog in London very much last winter.” 

“Ah,” he said, “I can’t agree with you there. 
There is no place like London in the world. 
The climate is really very agreeable. I have 
never got used to the country. Rooms in 
Bloomsbury at thirty shillings a week — ” he 
was off now upon those reminiscences which 
caused so much pain to his wife, “that is how 
we began our married life. Then a little villa 
at Balham, a bigger one at Streatham, and so 
on, till nothing would please my lady except a 
country-seat! Not even a distant view of the 
lights of London, or of its smoke and dear old 
chimney-pots! Only the fields and hills and 
those silly cows and sheep ! A poor lookout, I 
say. But they all like it, so I had to give in 
for peace sake!” 

He smiled benignly upon all present, re- 
gardless of their strained expression. 

After dinner they all adjourned to the 
music-room. Miss Royce and Anne both sang ; 
Mrs. Vipan looked extremely bored, for she 


ONLY ANNE 


393 


frankly disliked music; Sir Joshua applauded 
very loudly (his chestnut cutlets, in default of 
something more stimulating, seemed to have 
gone to his head), while later Elf discoursed 
fairy music on her Cremona, which he had re- 
cently bestowed upon her. She was now a. 
skilled violinist, and he was delighted with her 
talent. 

“That is a charming song. Miss Royce! I 
should like to hear that last verse again,” he 
cried enthusiastically. In spite of his love for 
and understanding of music, he still remained 
in many respects a Philistine. But Miss Royce 
was accustomed to the vagaries of her wealthy 
if rather uncultured patron, and sang the last 
verse again, obediently. 

They were interrupted then by the appear- 
ance of a footman, who, going up to Sir 
Joshua, gave him a couple of telegrams which 
had just arrived. He tore open the first; it 
contained only the confirmation of some ap- 
pointment he had made for the following week 
in the city. 

“No answer to that,” he said. “I suppose 
they’re waiting? Let us see what this one is 
about.” 

It was a much longer one, and he read it over 
once or twice amid dead silence. Lady Bret- 


394 


ONLY ANNE 


tingham watched him. She knew that he dis- 
liked being asked the contents of a letter or 
telegram, yet she longed now to speak and ask 
him what there was in this one. He got up 
and walked a step or two toward her. 

“My dear — Eric — ” he said, and could get 
no further. “Eric — ” he stopped. “Come with 
me to my study, my dear.” 

Lady Brettingham followed him down the 
long flower-filled corridor that led to the study. 
Then she took the telegram from his hand and 
read its message, though her eyes were so dim 
with tears she could scarcely see. ^^Have 
private information that Egerton is alive. Tell 
no one but Miss Travers, Eric,^^ 


CHAPTER XXVII 


“I WONDER why he should make an exception 
of Anne,” said Lady Brettingham, after a mo- 
ment’s pause. 

“I suppose because he is in love with her,” 
replied her husband. “Shall we tell her now?” 

“I suppose we had better. I will call Elf, 
and get her to tell her to come.” She went 
back to the music-room; a sound of singing 
could be heard, the deep notes of Miss Royce’s 
fine contralto. She paused till the song was 
ended, and then quietly opened the door. 

Elf came in answer to her call. 

“What is it. Mother?” 

“I want to speak to Anne. Ask her to come 
tg the study.” 

Anne quickly joined them. She had had 
from the first a strong presentiment that the 
telegram concerned Eric, even before Sir 
Joshua had spoken. She wondered what his 
news could be. She had a little secret fear that 
it was bad, but it never entered her head that it 
could possibly concern Anthony. She had 
395 


396 


ONLY ANNE 


mourned him too long and too deeply in her 
heart ever to feel there was the slightest hope 
of his still being alive. 

“My dear, the telegram is from Eric,” said 
Lady Brettingham. 

She watched the girl’s face for any evidence 
of emotion, but there was none. 

“I hope he is well,” she said. “I hope he is 
making a safe journey.” 

“He does not say,” said Lady Bretting- 
ham. “Read it, Anne. I do not think it can 
be true; it seems too wonderful.” 

“Anne took the flimsy sheet in her hand. 
The words danced unsteadily before her eyes, 
mixed with strange little points of light that 
dazzled and confused her. In her ears there 
was a sound as of many waters beating 
tumultuously. Once more she was standing in 
the pine woods within sight of the eternal 
snows, once more she was listening to An- 
thony’s voice telling her that he loved her. She 
felt as if the whole room had suddenly been 
illuminated, and filled with restless, throbbing, 
radiant wings. Then all light and sound 
faded, and a great enveloping darkness came 
upon her; there was no longer any substantial 
ground under her feet — the very earth seemed 
to be slipping away from her. She felt herself 


ONLY ANNE 


397 


falling — falling — into a deep and dark and 
measureless abyss. 


“The room was too hot for Anne,” said Sir 
Joshua fussily, as he went back to his other 
guests, leaving his wife and Clotilde to restore 
Anne from the very alarming fainting fit into 
which she had fallen. “I always tell my wife 
that she keeps up too big fires. At this time 
of year they are quite unnecessary, as there are 
the pipes as well. I wonder if Miss Travers 
is given to fainting. Have you ever heard of 
it. Elf? I am afraid her heart must be weak; 
she does not look at all strong. I must ask her 
when she is better if she has ever consulted 
Enderby. A capital man, Enderby — very 
strong on the subject of foodstuffs and a thor- 
ough believer in the Nauheim treatment.” 

He continued to deliver this monologue quite 
uninterruptedly, though Mrs. Vipan offered a 
few words of polite concern, and Elf had to be 
checked in her very natural wish to go at once 
to Anne and see if she could help in any way. 

“No, certainly not, my dear child; her maid 
will do all that is necessary. I am glad to say 
my wife has never had attacks of the kind; it 
was quite an alarming sight.” 

He was quite unaccustomed to fainting 


398 


ONLY ANNE 


women, and had really believed for the moment 
that Anne must be dead. 

“But I am quite sure it was the heat of the 
room,” he went on; “unless, of course, she ate 
too much meat at dinner — I am afraid I did 
not notice — but she did not seem to wish to try 
a chestnut cutlet, so I did not like to force one 
upon her! Now look at that blazing fire,” he 
said, turning to Miss Boyce, almost as if she 
had been instrumental in lighting it ; “it is ab- 
surd in April, and with all the warm weather 
we have been having. And there are the pipes, 
so no. one can say that the house is at all cold. 
A vegetable diet would soon put Miss Travers 
to rights. I have no doubt that if the truth 
were known this attack is merely the result of 
suppressed gout!” 

“I suppose there was nothing in the tele- 
gram to account for such a thing?” said Mrs. 
Vipan. 

“Oh, dear, no; nothing at all! It really 
hardly concerned her at all. My wife only 
wished to have a word with her before answer- 
ing it,” he said, not without guile. He was 
really astute, and he saw that the mysterious 
telegram had aroused Mrs. Vipan’s curiosity. 
And had not Eric desired that the news should 
be told to no one excepting Anne? 


ONLY ANNE 


399 


“Now, Elf, fiddle, if you please!” he said, al- 
most in a tone of command. Elf picked up her 
violin and moved across to the piano. 

“Do you mind playing for me. Miss Royce?” 
she said. In this way further questioning was 
avoided. 

It had been a relief to Lady Brettingham 
when the worthy knight had taken his depar- 
ture and left her alone with Anne. With the 
help of Clotilde, whose consternation was 
great, they soon succeeded in restoring Anne 
to consciousness. She opened her eyes and 
looked round vaguely. 

“Why, where am I?” she said, finding her- 
self, much to her surprise, lying on the floor 
in the big study at Middlecombe Park. All 
remembrance of the telegram had completely 
left her mind. She looked from Lady Bretting- 
ham to Clotilde, and could understand noth- 
ing. Only her face felt singularly wet and 
cold, the result of all the water that had been 
dabbed upon it. She took out a handkerchief 
and made an attempt to dry it. “It is all 
running down my neck,” she said. 

“My dear Anne! I hope you are feeling 
better? You had an attack of faintness — my 
husband has blamed me for keeping the rooms 
too hot. I am afraid it was too much for you.” 


400 ONLY ANNE 

“What happened?” said Anne. “I don’t re- 
member.” 

“You had just read Eric’s telegram,” said 
Lady Brettingham, with quivering lips. 

She believed that Anne had really fainted 
from joy because there had been news of Eric. 
She began to think that in these months of 
absence Anne had learned to love him, and her 
heart warmed at the thought of his joyful re- 
turn with his heart’s desire awaiting him. 

“A telegram? What was it about? I don’t 
seem to remember anything.” 

Lady Brettingham signed to the maid to 
leave the room. 

“My dear,” she said, “Eric evidently does 
not wish any one except yourself to know. He 
believes that he has not gone in vain — that 
there is some reason to hope that Sir Anthony 
may not be dead.” 

“Oh, yes; I remember now,” said Anne 
quietly. “I do just remember reading some- 
thing.” She rose and tried to rearrange her 
hair, which she could feel was damp and dis- 
ordered, for Lady Brettingham had soused 
her rather unskilfully in her fright. 

It was quite a relief to see her standing up 
again and looking only slightly paler than 
usual. She began to think that, after all, the 


ONLY ANNE 


401 


telegram had not had anything to do with it; 
that had been a silly, sentimental notion of hers, 
born of her own love for Eric. It was only the 
heat of the room that had made Anne sud- 
denly faint like that, and she must remember 
to tell the servants not to make up such big 
fires on these warm spring evenings. 

“I think perhaps you are a little tired. You 
must have felt the strain of Lord Chard’s ill- 
ness and of your friend’s anxiety during your 
visit there. I wish we could have persuaded 
you to stay here quietly for a few days longer; 
I feel sure it would have done you a great deal 
of good.” 

Anne said good-night to her and went up to 
her room. She was glad to escape from the 
guests and the music, and to be a little by her- 
self. She did not at first ring for her maid. 
She longed for solitude — just a little space in 
which to think over the wonderful Iiews that 
Eric had sent. She knew from her knowledge 
of him that he would not have been likely to 
send such a message without a very strong 
reason for believing in its truth. He would be 
the last to awaken false hopes. 

And then her thoughts turned abruptly to 
Myrtle. At present she must tell her nothing. 
She must not have any more suspense to bear 


402 


ONLY ANNE 


when her cup was so full. Later she might tell 
her of this slender hope. But not now. For 
this little half-hour Anthony seemed to be hers 
again. His voice echoed in her ears, his eyes 
were looking into hers, her hands were lying 
in his. She roused herself with an effort. This 
time if he ever came back it would be to Myrtle. 
In a few days — in a few weeks at most — 
Myrtle would be alone. As she knew now, the 
secret of Myrtle’s heart disclosed only after the 
news of Anthony’s death had come, so she saw 
that her own only course was to keep out of 
sight, to renounce him, if possible, more com- 
pletely than she had ever done. She had never 
believed in his love for herself; he had only 
liked her well enough to wish to marry her be- 
cause he wanted a wife and a home. That, too, 
had been part of her bitterness. But she be- 
lieved also that he would have learned to love 
her in the end. There was no use in thinking 
of these things — things that could never hap- 
pen. If he came back he would make Myrtle 
happy; he would give her back her lost hap- 
piness. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


‘T AM glad you have come back, Nancy,” said 
Myrtle; ''you seem to have been gone such 
ages. Pat had a bad night, and he is worse 
to-day.” 

She looked pale and weary ; there were heavy 
shadows under her great gray eyes. 

‘‘Oh, Myrtle, I am sorry! But, indeed, it 
was a little difficult to get away. They all tried 
to persuade me to stay even longer.” 

“It would have been more amusing for you, 
Nancy. I am ashamed to be so selfish, and to 
make so many demands upon your time.” 

Anne put her arm in Myrtle’s. 

“But I had much rather be here with you. 
I don’t want to be amused,” she said. 

It was the evening when she arrived at 
Chardford. There had been a wild and rather 
stormy sunset, and there was a glow of prim- 
rose-colored light still id the sky, which touched 
the hills to a soft and mellow beauty. The air 
was cold, and a wind was blowing in from the 
sea. 

“They don’t think he can live more than a 
few days,” she said; “he has hardly spoken at 
403 


404 


ONLY ANNE 


all these last twelve hours. But he is quite con- 
scious, and I do not think he is suffering now. 
He just lies there.” 

Anne was not greatly surprised at the news. 
She had been expecting it ever since her arrival 
at Chardford. 

“Come and have some tea,” said Myrtle, 
leading the way into the little room she always 
sat in when alone. 

She was afraid that Myrtle might ask her if 
there had been any further news of Eric, and 
she had not made up her mind what she should 
say. But, fortunately, Myrtle was now too 
preoccupied with her husband, and she did not 
refer to Eric at all. 

They dined alone that evening. Father 
Brent did not join them at meals. He had 
waited in readiness all last night lest he should 
be summoned, but Lord Chard had expressed 
no wish to see him. Myrtle had now but this 
one hope in her heart — that he might ask for 
the priest before he died. 

After dinner, at which she scarcely ate any- 
thing at all and maintained an almost unbroken 
silence, she returned to his room. Anne went 
up to her own apartment and lay on a big 
couch near the fire. She tried to read, but her 
thoughts were full of Myrtle. She wondered 


ONLY ANNE 


405 


what was passing in that silent room wherein 
Death was already hovering. At midnight she 
heard a knock at her door. She had been doz- 
ing, but the sound aroused her instantly; she 
went to the door and opened it. 

Myrtle was standing there. 

“Nancy, will you come? Pat is dying.” 

Myrtle was fully dressed; evidently she had 
not attempted to go to bed. 

“He has been very bad all the evening,” she 
said hurriedly, as Anne accompanied her down 
the long passage and up a short flight of stairs. 
“He was too weak to bear the pain. The doc- 
tor always thought that another sharp attack 
would be fatal.” She went on speaking quite 
calmly, though Anne noticed that she was 
trembling a little. “He has asked to see Father 
Brent.” 

“Have you sent for him? Shall I go?” said 
Anne. 

“He has been told,” said Myrtle. “He has 
gone to the chapel now. We shall hear him 
as he comes back.” They were standing now 
close to the door of the sick-room. “We had 
better wait for him here,” she added. 

Presently there came a sound of slow and 
heavy footsteps, accompanied by the remote 
tinkling of a little bell. The priest was ap- 


406 


ONLY ANNE 


proaching, preceded by a boy with a lighted 
candle. Myrtle and Anne knelt down and 
bowed their heads as the little procession 
passed. 

Then they rose and entered the room that lay 
just beyond. It was almost in darkness ex- 
cept for a little table in one corner, where some 
candles had been placed, which gave a little 
blaze of light. Flowers stood upon it, and a 
crucifix, and a little stoup of holy water. 

Father Brent went to the table and placed 
the pyx upon it, making a genuflection. Then 
signing to the others to leave the room, he was 
left alone with the dying man. 

Myrtle and Anne stood outside in the pas- 
sage, ready to he summoned once more into the 
room. The doctor and nurses were talking a 
little apart. Myrtle whispered hurriedly : 

“Only yesterday he refused so absolutely, 
but somehow I never thought he would die like 
that. I felt sure that he must relent. And 
to-night he asked quite suddenly — begged me 
to go and fetch him.” 

She was in an excited, overwrought condi- 
tion, and as she stood there Anne saw now that 
she was trembling from head to foot, as if with 
cold. 

Presently the door was opened, and they all 


ONLY ANNE 


m 


returned to their posts. Anne crept into the 
room and knelt at some little distance from the 
dying man. But she could see that his eyes 
were open; he was quite conscious. He re- 
minded her of a wounded hawk, with his aqui- 
line features and strange, fierce eyes. As they 
knelt there the priest gave him the Holy Viati- 
cum. He had made his confession and had 
been anointed, and now he lay there tran- 
quilly. 

Across the heavy and tense silence Father 
Brent’s voice could be heard in a low, sustained 
murmur, saying in Latin the prayers for the 
dying. 

The sick man seemed to be listening atten- 
tively. Myrtle sat near him now, with her 
hand in his. But his hold on his wife’s hand 
slackened as the minutes wore on. The scene 
was solemn and a little eerie — the hushed, 
dimly lit room, with that concentrated light 
coming from the candles upon the hastily im- 
provised altar; the deep, lurking shadows that 
darkened the old mahogany furniture; the 
form, grim and attenuated, of the dying man; 
the sound of the priest’s voice, praying in a low 
monotone. 

As Lord Chard lay there with his eyes fixed 
upon Myrtle he tried to smile — that slow, enig- 


408 


ONLY ANNE 


matic smile which was so familiar to her. But 
he did not move, he did not speak. 

Suddenly the doctor came a step nearer. He 
put his finger on the sick man’s pulse, then bent 
down and listened to his heart. He made a 
sign to Myrtle as if to tell her that the end 
had come. The heavy lids had dropped over 
those dark and fierce eyes, the slow and diffi- 
cult breathing had stopped. The sudden hush 
needed no explanation. Father Brent’s voice 
was raised a little now as he said the prayers 
for the newly dead. Then Anne rose to her 
feet and went across the room to Myrtle. 

Myrtle’s face was quite frozen. She stood 
there without moving, without stirring. Her 
eyes were fixed upon her husband. Even now 
she could not believe that this was the end. 

He had loved her perhaps better than any of 
those who had loved her. Once he had made 
her very unhappy. Once she had rebelled. She 
had not been free from blame. Now she let 
Anne lead her quietly away. 

“How one wonders what it must be hke the 
moment after,” she whispered. “What does 
the soul find first, do you think, Nancy? But 
I am sure it must feel very lonely — to go away 
like that quite alone.” 

Anne sat with her that night until she fell 


ONLY ANNE 409 

asleep. Then she crept downstairs to her own 
room. The fire had gone out, and the early 
hours of the spring morning were chilly. 
Myrtle’s freedom had come to her at last. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


The funeral took place a few days later, and 
immediately afterward Myrtle and Anne re- 
turned to town. They had resolved to go 
abroad as soon as possible, for Lady Chard’s 
health gave rise to some anxiety. She was laid 
up in Brook Street for some weeks, having 
caught cold at the funeral. For some days it 
was even feared that her lungs would be 
affected. She coughed a good deal, and was 
alarmingly thin. She was showing the visible 
results of the long dual strain through which 
she had been passing. 

‘T shouldn’t mind dying now,” she said one 
day to Anne. “Once I used to think it would 
be horrible, but I am not afraid of it any more. 
But nothing seems to make me very ill or very 
tired.” She looked both to a degree that made 
poor Anne’s heart ache. 

Chardford was, of course, the property of 
the new holder of the title — a distant cousin, 
who was only sixteen years of age. As he was 
a minor, the place was in the hands of trustees, 
and Myrtle had permission to leave her per- 
sonal belongings there for another six months. 

410 


ONLY ANNE 


411 


The house in town was left to her absolutely, 
as well as the greater part of Lord Chard’s 
fortune. He had made this bequest without 
any restrictions. 

Mrs. Grayle wrote to Anne professing to 
be greatly shocked at the news of his 
death. 

“It is really quite wonderful that he should 
have lived so long, considering that for years 
he has been a doomed man,” she wrote; “but 
I am sure his wife can only regard it as a re- 
lease! I am glad to think that you are with 
poor, dear Lady Chard. For, though I have 
always regarded her as very unbalanced and 
frivolous (and I was going to add godless, 
though perhaps that would not be quite chari- 
table) , and a very unsuitable companion for an 
impressionable young woman like yourself, it 
is preferable that you should be with her, rather 
than living by yourself at Middlecombe. Your 
uncle was bitterly disappointed that our united 
efforts last winter were so futile in prevailing 
upon you to sell your cottage there, which I 
have learned since was a very bad investment. 
You paid far too high a price for it, and you 
could not expect to get anything like that sum 
for it if you tried to sell it now! Dear Vera 
and Conrad are to be married directly after 


412 


ONLY ANNE 


Easter. I hope you will be able to come to 
Elsham for the wedding. Vera would have 
asked you to be her bridesmaid, only she 
thought as you are older than she is, you would 
not care to be! She was received into the 
Roman Catholic Church last week; of course, 
that must always be a sorrow to me; still, we 
must hope for the best. You know what a feel- 
ing one has — that they are never particular 
about speaking the truth, and dear Vera has 
always been exceptionally truthful!” 

Anne could not help laughing as she read 
this letter. She gave it to Myrtle, who was 
even stirred into an unwilling amusement. 

“So she really thinks me unbalanced and 
frivolous? Dear Nancy, I would give the 
world to feel frivolous for five minutes! Shall 
I ever, I wonder?” 

She was sitting writing at her little bureau 
in one of the smaller drawing-rooms, a room 
which she almost always used now in prefer- 
ence to any of the others. No one had ever 
used it much, so it held no associations for her, 
and she had transferred most of the furniture 
from her old sitting-room thither. She told 
Anne that there were no ghosts there to dis- 
turb her. To-day the place was gay with 
flowers, azaleas, and violets, great, waxen arum 


ONLY ANNE 


413 


lilies, and masses of the pink roses of which 
Myrtle had always been extravagantly fond. 

She looked very fragile; her hair showed 
rather vividly red in contrast to the heavy, 
somber black of her apparel. 

“Frivolous!” she repeated. “If she could 
only see me with the lawyers and trustees. 
They have tired me out this morning, Nancy. 
I wish we could go away soon. They tell me 
I am a rich woman, and I don’t particularly 
care to be very rich. Perhaps it is because I 
paid so dearly for it in those first years. Well, 
what are you thinking about, Nancy? What 
abstruse problem is perplexing you?” 

She rose and came across the room and sat 
near Anne. 

“W^here shall we go, Nancy?” she asked. 

The long task of nursing, the perpetual wit- 
nessing of another’s sufferings had told upon 
her. She was quite without initiative and de- 
pended more and more upon Anne. 

“Haven’t you though of any kind of plan. 
Myrtle?” said Anne. 

“Oh, I have thought of a hundred absurd 
projects! What I believe that I should have 
liked best is to go a long, long voyage — away 
from letters and lawyers and news of all sorts. 
But, then, I could not go alone, and I should 


414 


ONLY ANNE 


not like to condemn you to such a dismal thing. 
Besides, you hate the sea, Nancy; you hate it 
as much as I love it!” 

Anne, who was perfectly unselfish in her de- 
votion to Myrtle, would gladly have gone to 
the end of the world had it afforded her the 
slightest satisfaction or procured for her a little 
peace, a little heart’s-ease. 

“That doesn’t matter,” she said, “and I be- 
lieve it would do you more good than anything. 
One can rest so well on board ship. And I 
don’t hate it as much as all that.” 

“Shall you want to be at home when Eric 
Brettingham comes back?” 

Anne started a little. Myrtle had not al- 
luded to the subject for a long time. There 
had been no further news of Eric, and Anne 
had never had the courage to tell her of that 
message which had reached Middlecombe the 
night she had stayed there. That vague, dim, 
and forlorn hope must first be substan- 
tiated before she dared awaken it in Myrtle’s 
heart. 

Yet of late Myrtle had seemed so frozen and 
indifferent that Anne had wondered whether 
even this news would have had power to arouse 
her from that dull and paralyzed apathy. 

“You are sure, Nancy, that you will not mind 


ONLY ANNE 415 

being away when he comes hack?” persisted 
Myrtle. 

“I am quite sure I shall not,” she replied. 
“I hope — perhaps he may have changed his 
mind in all these months. Y ou see, he had not 
known me very long.” 

“And the cottage ? And your flat? Nancy, 
what made you saddle yourself with all these 
places?” 

“I think I shall let the flat, and Jael can live 
at the cottage and look after things there.” 

“I am afraid I am going to be selfish, and I 
shall want you with me for ever so long, 
Nancy,” said Myrtle; “so I am beginning to 
agree with Mrs. Grayle that it was very rash 
and silly of you to buy that cottage.” 

“Perhaps it was,” agreed Anne, thinking 
a little sadly how everything had changed since 
she had made it her refuge last year. Anthony 
was dead. Lord Chard was dead — the two men 
who had adored Myrtle — and now Myrtle was 
alone and needed her; there were no foolish, 
tender reasons why she should turn her face 
from the world and escape, as she had done last 
summer. Middlecombe had been a refuge 
then, most sorely desired and deeply necessary ; 
but now it was no longer of any use. She and 
Myrtle seemed suddenly to have been left quite 


416 


ONLY ANNE 


alone, with only each other. They were the 
solitary survivors of a shipwreck, and clung to 
each other in their hapless plight. 

It was decided at last that they should go for 
a somewhat prolonged cruise in the Mediter- 
ranean in a big liner that had now been turned 
into a pleasure yacht. After this they could 
remain abroad, and perhaps a little later jour- 
ney to the Far East. No place seemed suffi- 
ciently remote from England to satisfy Myrtle. 

Preparations for the voyage were begun 
almost at once, for Myrtle always hated delays, 
and when once her mind was made up she 
always carried her plans into action at once. 
The stress of a new impulse was a powerful 
thing with her, urging her into action even if 
physically she was too weak and ill for great 
effort. She organized everything herself, 
though, as usual, the brunt of the work fell 
upon Anne’s devoted shoulders. Everything 
was hurried on so that they might be in per- 
fect readiness to start by the time all pressing 
business was settled. Anne in her heart was 
glad to have a legitimate excuse for avoiding 
Eric on his return. In the past month her 
hopes for Anthony’s safety — always so frail 
and fragile — had been slowly killed by Eric’s 
continued silence. He had set himself from 


ONLY ANNE 


417 


the first to believe that Anthony was alive, 
until at last he had persuaded himself against 
all laws of probability that this was indeed the 
case. 

Just before their departure she received a 
letter from Lady Brettingham telling her that 
they had had a letter from him, only the date 
was earlier than that of the telegram, so there 
had been no allusion to the news contained 
in that message. But he said that he had 
bought a tract of land in East Africa which he 
intended to farm, and certain negotiations 
would have to be completed before he could 
return. In the meantime he was following out 
a new clue as to the last whereabouts of An- 
thony, who, it seemed, had never returned to 
camp from a shooting expedition. He had 
gone with only one man, and neither of them 
had ever been heard of again. He felt that if 
he himself journeyed to that neighborhood, 
which was in a wild and tractless part, he might 
be able to ascertain precise particulars as to his 
death. The letter was of old date, written soon 
after Eric’s departure from the port where he 
had seen Major Graham, and heard these par- 
ticulars from him of Anthony’s disappearance 
and supposed death. 

“So you see,” he wrote, “I shall have inter- 


418 


ONLY ANNE 


ests here in the future, and I shall probably 
spend some part of every year here. It is no 
use of my thinking of settling down at Middle- 
combe for years to come, unless something very 
unlikely should happen. I am a regular wan- 
derer and this life suits me.” 

Lady Brettingham was dreadfully per- 
turbed at this new plan ; she had so hoped that 
this time he would indeed return home and 
settle down. She told Anne in her letter that 
the land wanted looking after at Middlecombe, 
as Sir Joshua was entirely indifferent to agri- 
cultural matters and under his lax regime 
everything would go to rack and ruin. He did 
not even feign an interest in it. And now 
came this fresh blow from Eric. “I can not 
think where he gets these wild, wandering ways 
from,” she wrote, “for personally I hate travel- 
ing, and am nearly always sick in the train. 
And Joshua never wants to go for a longer 
journey than down to the city in the tube! It 
is simply heart-breaking to think what strange 
qualities our children may develop ; one almost 
feels as if they did not belong to one at all! I 
did so hope that Eric would marry and settle 
down and look after things here, instead of 
talking about farming in East Africa.” 

Anne could read between the lines perfectly, 


ONLY ANNE 


419 


and knew that Lady Brettingham had intended 
to convey to her her own conviction that if she 
would only definitely consent to marry Eric 
there would be no more talk on his part of 
settling in East Africa, or in any other for- 
lorn and uncivilized quarter of the globe; he 
would be only too glad to return to England 
and make his home somewhere near Middle- 
combe, and be a comfort to his parents. 

She and Myrtle left England toward the end 
of May. Just before they started Myrtle said 
to her, rather wistfully: 

“You are quite certain you don’t mind com- 
ing, Nancy? I’m sure I could manage with 
only my maid.” 

“Of course I don’t mind coming. Myrtle. 
I’m conceited enough to think you couldn’t 
spare me!” 

“I don’t believe I could. Not yet at least. 
Not for a long time. Nancy, has it ever oc- 
curred to you that I am still half-asleep — half- 
unconscious? You can call it whatever you 
like. Some day, though, I shall awake with a 
crash — and it is wrong of me — but I don’t want 
to wake, and face life again in all its empti- 
ness!” 

“Perhaps it will not always be so empty, 
Myrtle,” said Anne. 


420 


ONLY ANNE 


She could hardly bear to look at Myrtle 
then; her great gray eyes were so full of an 
unbearable sadness, and Anne knew that she 
was thinking of Anthony lying far away in his 
unknown grave. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Many weeks later Myrtle and Anne arrived at 
Marseilles on their homeward voyage, and by 
this time Lady Chard had grown thoroughly 
weary of the sea. During the first part of the 
voyage she had really improved in health and 
spirits, and she had taken quite a keen interest 
in all the fresh places they had visited. They 
had enjoyed for the most part perfect weather. 
It had always been planned that they should 
resume their travels — this time to the East — 
soon after their return to Marseilles. 

The project, however, found no favor with 
Myrtle now ; rather, it must be said, to Anne’s 
relief. They remained for a little time at 
Marseilles, while Myrtle made up her mind 
what she should like to do next. The only thing 
she was definitely opposed to was the sugges- 
tion that they should return to England. She 
was enjoying the warmth of the early sum- 
mer in the South, and had no wish to go back 
to London and cope with the immense amount 
of business and work which awaited her there. 

“There is really no hurry to decide any- 
421 


422 


ONLY ANNE 


thing, Nancy,” she said one day; “we can stay 
here for the present.” 

They stayed at a large hotel in the famous 
Cannebiere — that fine and wide white street of 
which Marseilles is proverbially proud. Myrtle 
hired a car, and they made several expeditions 
in it down the Corniche and along the coast, 
and sometimes going as far inland as Arles, 
Aix, and Avignon — those smiling cities of the 
Midi. The days passed very pleasantly, and 
so far the June heat was not too great to inter- 
fere at all with their enjoyment. Myrtle 
looked really stronger and better; she was no 
longer so thin and haggard, and at times she 
even showed something of her old irrepressible 
gaiety. 

Anne had only once written to Eric, and that 
was just before leaving home. She did not 
know in the least when, if ever, he would re- 
ceive that letter. But there was always the 
chance of his receiving it, and she could not 
afford to let that chance slip by. 

“I am going abroad with Lady Chard, whose 
husband died recently, after a long illness,” she 
had written. “We shall cruise first in the Med- 
iterranean, and after that our plans are quite 
undecided. Perhaps I shall not be in England 
when you return. I can not believe that there 


ONLY ANNE 


42B 


is any hope of those rumors concerning Sir 
Anthony’s safety being correct ; still, if the un- 
likely should happen and you should find him 
alive, I hope you will show him this letter.” 

That was all, and when she had closed it with 
great care and precision she had the indefinable 
impression that she had thus set a seal upon 
her own destiny. Anthony, if he ever read that 
letter, would know that Myrtle was free. 

Now, as day after day her thoughts became 
more completely occupied with Myrtle, whom 
she had piloted safely across the first weeks of 
her immense solitude and whom she had helped 
in every way she possibly could, she felt that 
some of her own struggles were at an end. 
Her love for Anthony was buried deeply in her 
heart; she prayed that it might never re- 
awaken. She would keep it there, a beautiful, 
wounding secret that must be hidden always 
from all the world. She had never revealed 
it to any one — not even to Anthony in that mo- 
ment of supreme temptation at the Riffel Alp, 
and now she would never reveal it. Surely 
some day the hand of time would heal her 
wounds with its never-failing balm. Surely 
there would come a day when she would be 
freed from the tyranny of this bitterly remem- 
bered love. 


424 


ONLY ANNE 


She came out of the cathedral at an early 
hour one morning, and passed down the road 
that runs alongside the busy quays and harbor. 
Even at that hour the quays were crowded with 
people, for a big liner was about to depart. 
She was nearing the turning which leads up to 
the Cannebiere when she became suddenly 
aware of a tall, English-looking figure walk- 
ing ahead of her. Something in his walk re- 
minded her of Eric Brettingham. Her heart 
beat a little faster. No, it could not be Eric. 
If the fastnesses of the African forests had 
disgorged that young and brave figure, surely 
by this time she would have heard the news. 

Then she remembered that she and Myrtle 
had been singularly without news of any one 
for a considerable time. They had not seen 
any English papers regularly, and they had 
not received any letters of importance since 
they arrived in Marseilles. Probably these had 
been delayed or sent to other ports, thus miss- 
ing them. Even Lady Brettingham, who was 
usually a voluminous correspondent, had 
ceased for some time to send her usual budget 
to Anne. 

Anne walked on a little faster. If this man 
were really Eric she must see him, she must 


ONLY ANNE 


425 


speak to him. He would give her news — defi- 
nite confirmation of Anthony’s death. Al- 
though she knew that Myrtle had always be- 
lieved him to be dead, the confirmation of the 
report might influence her in making her future 
plans. Much as Anne had desired to avoid 
what must certainly prove a very painful in- 
terview for both herself and Eric, supposing 
his feelings for her were still unchanged, the 
thought of Myrtle still prevailed over all other 
considerations. 

She was not yet weary of her task ; she only 
wished to steer her friend into some secure and 
sheltered harbor. 

She was within a few yards of him when he 
suddenly turned. He walked on a yard or two, 
then again glanced back. This time he stopped 
abruptly, and came toward her. 

“Melisande!” he said, and the color surged 
to his face through all its tan of sunburn. 

“Oh, Eric! What are you doing here?” 

“We landed last night. Did you know we 
were to come?” 

Her face was very pale. 

“Egerton and I,” he said slowly. “Hadn’t 
you heard? I wrote to you several times.” 

The bright sunshine of that June morning, 
the wide, white boulevard, the tall row of 


426 


ONLY ANNE 


houses that faced the harbor, seemed to fade 
from her vision and become all at once remote 
and unreal. The shrill scream of a ship’s siren 
sounding across the harbor almost deafened 
her. She looked confused, bewildered, uncon- 
vinced. Eric grasped her arm and suddenly 
realized how ill she looked. He wondered if 
she had been ill. They were near a restaurant, 
and he led her up to one of the marble-topped 
tables that stood in the street under an awning. 

“Sit down here,” he said; “you must have 
some coffee.” 

He ordered it, and when it came he poured 
some out and gave it to her. 

“Drink this, Melisande,” he said, quite 
gently. “I am sorry I spoke so suddenly. You 
see, I thought you knew.” 

She tried to speak. 

“I hadn’t heard,” she said, with an effort. 

She lifted the cup to her lips with trembling 
hand, which shook so much that some of the 
coffee was spilled. But its warmth revived her. 
She spoke quite steadily. 

“Then you were right; he was alive all the 
time?” 

“Yes,” he said; he is here with me in Mar- 
seilles now.” 

“Here? Now?” 


ONLY ANNE 


427 


“Yes. He got lost, you know, going off 
shooting with only one man, a native, who was 
killed by a lion. Egerton escaped, but he lost 
his way, couldn’t find the camp, and wandered 
about alone and starving for several days. At 
last he reached a native village, and was laid 
up there with fever, knowing nothing at all 
about anything for several weeks. He hadn’t 
really lost his memory, but he was too weak to 
understand where he was or to send a message. 
It was a wonder he ever got through alive. 
But they did their best for him, and I found 
him still there — still hoping that a search-party 
would arrive in time.” 

“And is he better?” said Anne. 

“Oh, he is nearly well. The voyage has 
picked him up wonderfully. And at Port Said 
I got your letter — forwarded on — I couldn’t 
make out why ; there was some mistake. They 
thought we had left before we did, and so sent 
on the letters. He was a changed man from 
the moment he read it, Melisande.” 

Across the little table he seemed to be watch- 
ing her with a wistful sadness. 

“There are no secrets between Egerton and 
myself now,” he said; “he has told me what it 
meant to him, this knowledge of Lord Chard’s 
death. That was what you wished him to 


428 


ONLY ANNE 


know? Your letter puzzled me, but when I 
showed it to him I guessed why you wished him 
to know.” 

“He spoke to you of it?” she asked. 

“Yes. His one fear is that she may not care 
for him. On his side it is a very old affair — 
dating long before her marriage.” 

“She does care for him,” said Anne dully. “I 
saw her the day I first heard the news of his 
death — the day you took me to London. It 
was her whom I went to see.” 

“Where is she now?” asked Eric. 

He had a strong curio;sity to see the woman 
who for so many years had been the object of 
Anthony Egerton’s devotion. 

“She is here in Marseilles,” said Anne, and 
a sound that was neither laugh nor sob escaped 
her. 

“It seems as if you and I were to bring them 
together again, does it not, Melisande?” 

“Yes,” she said gravely. 

Eric walked back to the hotel with her. At 
the door he left her, promising to telephone and 
appoint an hour for Anthony to come. 

“I shall hardly know how to tell her,” said 
Anne. 

“You mean it will matter so much to her?” 

She said slowly, speaking like one in a dream : 


ONLY ANNE 


429 


“It will mean everything in the world to 
Myrtle.” 

He was for Myrtle — as he had always been 
from the beginning. 

“Nancy, dear, are you sure you are not 
dreaming? You look so white. You are not 
a dream-person mocking me?” 

Myrtle was sitting at the window, gazing 
down upon the busy Cannebiere, watching the 
trams go past, and the fiacres, and the clumsy 
wooden carts laden with baskets of fruit and 
vegetables. 

Anne came over and stood near her. 

“No, Myrtle; I am not a dream-person, and 
it is quite, quite true what I have just told you. 
I have seen Eric Brettingham, and he is here 
with Sir Anthony; they landed last night, and 
he is going to telephone and say what time 
he will come here.” 

Myrtle put out her hand and stroked Anne’s 
thick, dark hair. 

“This long, dull voyage has ruined your 
nerves, Nancy,” she said coolly, “and you are 
having delusions, as people often do under such 
circumstances. I shall have to turn nurse my- 
self and take care of you, just as you have 
taken care of me all these weeks. You must 


430 


ONLY ANNE 


know perfectly well that Tony is dead. Why, 
he has been dead for months and months ! We 
heard it first in January, and that was long 
after he died, because, you know, it was some 
weeks before Major Graham got back to the 
coast. And now this is June. Six months! 
If he had been alive we should have heard it 
long ago. I wish, though,” she continued fret- 
fully, “that your delusions had not taken this 
particularly painful form. You might just 
as well come and tell me that you had met Pat 
in Marseilles!” 

“Oh, Myrtle, dear! Please don’t talk like 
that. Will you not telephone to Eric, if you 
won’t believe me?” 

“No ; I refuse to encourage you in your mad- 
ness,” said Myrtle, almost bitterly. 

“Myrtle, do please believe that I am telling 
you the truth. Sir Anthony isn’t dead ; he is 
here with Eric in Marseilles. You will see him 
to-day, if you wish to. You can see him now, 
if you wish to!” 

She spoke with unusual emphasis. Yet a 
fear assailed her that Myrtle’s mind had be- 
come unhinged by the shock of hearing the 
news. Perhaps even now her happiness had 
come too late — so late that it could only kill 
that which had been broken past the mending. 


ONLY ANNE 


431 


She went to the telephone and demanded 
Eric’s hotel. She was determined to convince 
her. Eric came quickly to the telephone. 

“Lady Chard wishes to speak to you,” she 
said. She put the receiver firmly into Myrtle’s 
hand and raised it to her ear. 

When she gave it back to Anne she had not 
said a single word, but her eyes were full of 
tears. 

“Dear T^ancy, you were right. He is there,” 
she said; “he is coming almost at once.” 

She drew Anne’s face down to hers and 
kissed her. 

“Nancy,” she whispered, “you mustn’t leave 
me ; you mustn’t go away. And what will you 
do about Eric?” She smiled, but the tears still 
fell thickly. “Mercifully, you will escape the 
triumphal arch business this time — it will ap- 
pear at Middlecombe in quite an aggravated 
form. And if it were not for shocking people, 
I should like to put up every arch with my 
own hands. How splendid he must be — this 
Eric of yours! I begin to think he is almost 
worthy of my little Nancy!” 

Anne was silent. The same question had 
been uppermost in her mind for some time past. 
What should she do about Eric ? How should 
she refuse that brave young heart its desired 
happiness ? 


432 


ONLY ANNE 


“Your marriage, Nancy, would be a fitting 
termination to a very romantic episode!” 

“I think it will be quite romantic enough, 
Myrtle, without my marriage!” 

“What do you mean, Nancy?” said Myrtle 
quickly. 

“Forgive me. Myrtle. I should not have 
spoken like that. But you know how long Sir 
Anthony has cared for you, and he cares for 
you still.” 

Myrtle turned her face away. 

“How do you know that, Nancy? I am sure 
he must have given up caidng for me ages 
ago.” 

“He cares for you still. He is coming back 
to you. Eric told me — he has spoken to 
Eric ” 

And she slipped out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Myrtle was still sitting there, thoughtful and 
immovable, as one in a beautiful dream, when 
Eric Brettingham was announced. 

“Lady Chard?” he said hesitatingly. 

“Yes,” she answered. “Do you wish to see 
Miss Travers? I will send for her.” 

“Xo,” he said; “do not send for her. I have 
come to see you. I have brought a message 
from Egerton. He could not come himself, 
after all. I don’t like him to go out. There is 
the least touch of fever. He must be careful.” 

“But he is not really ill?” she said quickly. 

He looked at her curiously. She was more 
beautiful even than he had expected, this 
woman with the glorious golden-red hair, the 
wonderful gray eyes, bright and shining as 
stars, the small, delicate face, so white and 
fragile. Her charm and grace and loveliness 
had never perhaps been so great as at that 
moment. 

“Oh, no; it is only a precaution. He is 
dreadfully imprudent.” 

“I am accustomed to sick people,” she said. 

“I want you to come and see him,” said Eric. 

433 


434 


ONLY ANNE 


“I have my motor here. I wonder if you could 
come soon. Perhaps — now?” He looked at 
her with his straight and candid gaze. 

“I must tell Anne,” she said, almost in- 
audibly. “I have been ill, too.” She passed her 
hand over her eyes with a swift little gesture. 

“Would you mind waiting while I go and 
speak to her? Anne must come with me.” 

He sat down, waiting for their return. The 
minutes seemed to pass like hours. His 
thoughts were chaotic, tumultuous. He knew 
only too well the feverish impatience of the 
sick man he had just left to see Lady Chard 
again. And Anne? What part had Anne 
played — from first to last — in this little drama, 
of which the climax was now fast approaching? 
What did it mean to Anne ? 

Myrtle came back, accompanied by Anne. 
Both faces were calm and controlled. Beside 
the radiant, vivid beauty of Myrtle Chard, 
Anne looked a little pale and colorless. Her 
eyes were hard and strange. If he had been 
able to read her thoughts he would have known 
that now she was going to put the final seal 
upon her long sacrifice, her long renouncement. 
She was going to the scaffold with head erect 
and eyes shining. But her manner to him gave 
no sign of any interior struggle; it was cold, 


ONLY ANNE 


435 


restrained, controlled. Yet he felt sensitively 
the presence of some strong emotion ; it seemed, 
indeed, to possess all qualities except that of 
actual audibility. 

Outside in the street his motor was throbbing 
like some restless beast that was eager and im- 
patient to be gone. It shook and quivered 
with the beating of its engines. 

“I’ll drive myself,” he said; “we shall get 
there quicker.” 

“Don’t be too hazardous,” said Anne, in a 
cool, light tone that was absolutely devoid of 
any emotion. “Lady Chard is rather nervous.” 

“She need not be nervous; I take no risks,” 
he said quietly, as he gripped the wheel with 
his fine, strong hands. 

With one swift glide the car had moved for- 
ward rapidly. The street was fairly clear. 
The noonday sunshine was blinding, and Anne 
felt that the glare touched her eyes to physical 
pain. But she was not suffering. She was 
only going to complete what she had always 
intended to do. She was going to reap the 
fruit of her own most bitter sacrifice. That 
sacrifice had not been made in vain. She had 
paid a heavy price for Myrtle’s happiness — she 
had paid the uttermost farthing. 

Myrtle sat with her in the tonneau of the car. 


436 


ONLY ANNE 


Her face was scarcely visible under the close- 
fitting black hat that came down rather low 
over her brow. But some curls shaken out of 
place gleamed beneath the dark brim with an 
ardent color, as if the sun had kissed them. 

Anne felt as if she were regarding the drama 
of another person — a drama in which she her- 
self played no part. She was still frozen, un- 
able to realize. But she wished in a vague, 
undefined way that Myrtle had not insisted 
upon her accompanying her. 

Suddenly Myrtle put out her hand and 
touched Anne’s. The girl started violently — 
almost as if she had been struck. 

They were climbing the steep hill that leads 
up to the station at Marseilles. Tall, white 
houses, with gray wooden shutters closed across 
the windows, lined the cobbled street on both 
sides. The whole city seemed strangely astir 
and alive in the sunshine. 

“Nancy, dear, you look like a ghost. Are 
you not glad? You must try and be a little 
glad for my sake.” She spoke almost plead- 
ingly, thinking that Eric’s presence had really 
made Anne unhappy, that she was perhaps 
troubled by his return, and at the prospect of 
giving him that final answer which she knew 
he would demand. 


ONLY ANNE 


437 


But those words of hers seemed to Anne 
almost like a reproach, and she felt that her 
iron self-control might even now give way. 
For the first time she had found herself unable 
to look so closely at Myrtle’s great happiness ; 
her self-taught calm threatened to forsake her. 
It had come too near; it was something that 
she could not bear to look upon; the contem- 
plation of Myrtle’s joy had become a strenu- 
ous and subtle torture. 

But she bent burning dark eyes toward 
Myrtle. 

“Oh, but I am glad — so very glad — dear 
Myrtle!” she said, with passionate emphasis. 
Her throat seemed to close abruptly, painfully, 
upon the words. 

Eric drew up suddenly close to the curb out- 
side a big hotel. He sprang down and helped 
both Myrtle and Anne to alight. His young, 
tanned face was aflame; there was a rapidity, 
a suddenness about all his actions then, as if he 
felt that not a single minute must be wasted. 

“I’ll just show you the room ; then I want to 
send a message down to the chemist,” he said. 
He went upstairs ahead of them. 

Myrtle and Anne followed him. On the first 
floor he threw open a door and disclosed a small 
sitting-room furnished with heavy velvet-cov- 


438 


ONLY ANNE 


ered chairs and a big, round mahogany table. 
A man’s form could be discerned sitting there 
by the window. 

Myrtle went forward quickly into the room. 
Anne stood hesitatingly upon the threshold. 
Eric had left them and had gone quickly down- 
stairs again. 

Anthony rose to his feet; he was standing 
now face to face with Myrtle, who had paused 
there, as if she had no strength to go any far- 
ther. Anne saw that his eyes were bright, as 
with some blue flame. 

“Myrtle, beloved!” he said, and stretched out 
his arms slowly, as if he scarcely dared to touch 
her. Anne heard her cry: “Tony! Tony!” as 
she went forward toward those waiting, out- 
stretched arms. 

Myrtle had entirely forgotten Anne’s pres- 
ence, and Anthony had not realized it, for a 
moment later she heard him say: 

“Wasn’t that some one with you. Myrtle, 
darling?” 

“It was only Anne!” said Myrtle. 

Anne closed the door noiselessly. She crept 
down the stairs, half afraid that Myrtle might 
come and call her back. 

“Dear, it was very good of you to come. 
Eric gives me no liberty at all. Still, I owe my 


ONLY ANNE 439 

life to him, and I am obliged to humor him in 
consequence.” 

He held Myrtle a little from him; his eyes 
ran over her features, as if to assure himself 
that she was real, and not the phantom of some 
mocking, flattering dream. 

“I seem to have been waiting for you half my 
life!” he said. 

“And I — ” she said, quivering between 
laughter and tears. 

How ill he looked; his clothes hung loosely 
upon him ; there were silver patches in his dark 
hair! 

“Did you guess,” he said, “that I loved you 
all the time? It drove me over and over again 
into the wilderness, where I could never hear 
your voice nor see your face, except in my 
dreams. And you?” 

“We needn’t speak of that now,” she said 
softly; “but I think you must have known that 
it wasn’t easy always — for me.” 

“And I was afraid,” he said, “that you didn’t 
care any more.” 

She took his thin, brown hand and raised it 
to her lips. 

“I cared always,” she said simply; “that was 
my punishment.” 

A long time passed before they gave thought 


440 ONLY ANNE 

to anything or any one else. Then Myrtle said 
suddenly : 

‘T wonder what on earth’s become of Anne?” 

She went to the window and looked out, but 
all signs of Anne and Eric and the motor had 
vanished. 

“Do you know,” she said softly, “I think 
perhaps that some day Eric and Anne will 
marry each other? He has been in love with 
her for some time, and though she has always 
declared that she will not marry him, I hope 
she will change her mind. I never saw him 
before to-day; but he is really rather beautiful, 
isn’t he?” 

“And the best fellow in the world,” said 
Anthony. “I am sure he would make Miss 
Travers very happy.” 

Through the white, glaring, sun-filled streets 
and along the Corniche Eric’s car sped swiftly. 
He was driving, and Anne was alone with him ; 
he had sent the chauffeur away on an errand. 
They passed the harbor and came in view of the 
sea, with the beautiful coast-line, the blue ex- 
panse of water dotted with little islands, the 
dark outlines of the ships. 

When Anne had left the room she had found 
Eric waiting at the foot of the stairs. 


ONLY ANNE 441 

“Eric!” she said hesitatingly. She was sur- 
prised to find him there, and sorry, too, for she 
had wished most passionately to be alone. 

“Yes,” he said quietly; “I was waiting for 
you.” 

“For me?” 

“Yes. Does that seem so strange to you, 
Melisande?” 

“I had much rather you had not waited.” 
Her voice had a strangled sound ; it hurt her to 
speak. 

“You are tired, are you not?” he said, with 
sudden compassion. 

Again the sense of some strong, unexpressed 
emotion made itself felt. 

“Yes, I think I am tired.” 

“They are together?” he asked. 

She nodded. In her ears was that cry of 
''Myrtle^ helovedr It filled the whole world 
with its echo, to the exclusion of everything 
else. 

“She won’t fail him now?” said Eric, almost 
jealously. 

Anne answered: 

“You don’t know what she has been through. 
And she has loved him all the time.” 

As the car shot forward down a straight and 


442 


ONLY ANNE 


empty piece of road, he turned to Anne and 
looked straight into her eyes. 

“You have given him back to her,” he said. 

“He was never mine to give,” said Anne. 

Blue, blue sea, and purple mountains en- 
closing the bay; a white road glaring in the 
sunshine; warm fragrance of orange blossom, 
of all the beautiful perfumes of the south; tall 
palms outlined against the sky that looked like 
a great blue pool. 

Suddenly she said : 

“They are together again — they are per- 
fectly happy — they love each other. Isn’t that 
enough?” 

Eric’s presence was calming her. She felt 
glad now that he had waited and taken her 
away down this long, white road — away from 
Anthony, from the sound of his voice. 

He looked so strong and grave; he always 
seemed to come to her, as he had come in the 
fog at Craddon, to help her in an hour of ex- 
treme need. 

“Melisande,” he said, and he slackened speed 
a little, “they are, as you say, together — and 
happy; they love each other. They have come 
together after years of parting. And you and 
I ? What are you going to say to me, beloved?” 


ONLY ANNE 


443 


But when he looked into her eyes he read 
there a sadness beyond all words. 

“No,” he said; “I must not ask you now — 
you can not say it yet. But some day — some 
day you will tell me.” 

And turning his face away, he gripped the 
wheel, and they sped forward in silence toward 
those dim and splendid mountains of the south. 


THE END 


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ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. 

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TEST OF courage; THE. Ross. 

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THEIR CHOICE. Skinner. 

THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkiewicz. 

TRAINING OF SILAS. Devine, S.J. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD, THE. Sadlier. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 

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8 


1 25 
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1 60 

1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
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A series of in- 1 00 
teresting articles 1 00 
on a great va- 1 00 
^ riety of subjects 1 00 
of much educa- 1 00 
tlonal value. Pro- 1 00 
f u s e 1 y illus- 1 00 
trated. 1 00 

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net, 1 85 
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UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. THE. Taggart. 1 25 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett. net , 1 26 

VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, THE. Egan. 1 25 

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JUVENILES 


ALTHEA. Nirdlinger. 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES, AN. Ferry. 
AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. .Mannix. 

BELL FOUNDRY, THE. Schaching. 

BERKLEYS, THE. Wight. 

BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. 

BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE, THE. Taggart. 
BOB-O’-LINK. Waggaman. 

BROWNIE AND I. .Aumerle. 

BUNT AND BILL. C. •Mulholland. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. 

CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK, THE. Spalding. 
CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. .Bearne. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. 
iCHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. Delamare. 
CLARE LORAINE. “Lee.” 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn. 

COLLEGE BOY, A. Yorke. 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannix. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. 

DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. C. Mulholland. 

DOLLAR HUNT, THE. E. C. Martin. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS, THE. Finn, S.J. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. Garrold. 
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FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. S. T. Smith. 
GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. 

GUILD BOYS OF RIDINGDALE. Bearne, SJ. 
HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Mannix. 
HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. 

HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. Finn, S.J. 
HOSTAGE OF WAR. Bonesteel. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. Egan. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. Barton. 
“JACK.” 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. Taggart. 

TACK O’LANTERN. Waggaman. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. 
JUVENILE ROUND TABJ^E. Second Series. 

d 


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1 15 
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0 85 

1 00 
1 00 


JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Third Series. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 

legends and stories of the child JESUS FROM 
MANY LANDS. Lutz. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES, THE. Delamare. 
LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST, THE. Roberts. 
LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. Nixon-Roulet. 
LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. 

LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. Taggart. 

MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. THE. Brunowe. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE, THE. Copus, S.J. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS, THE. Spalding, S.J. 
MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sadlier. 

MELOR OF THE SILVER HAND. Bearne, S.J. 

MILLY AVELING. S. T. Smith. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

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MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY, THE. Sadlier. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY, THE. Barton. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL, THE. Sadlier. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. 

NED RIEDER. Wehs. 

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NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S, THE. Brunowe. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED BED. S. T. Smith. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. Spalding, S.J. 

OUR LADY’S LUTENIST. Bearne, S.J. 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 

PAULINE ARCHER. Sadlier. 

PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. 

PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. 

PETRONILLA, AND OTHER STORIES. Donnelly. 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey. 

PILGRIM FROM IRELAND, A. Carnot. 

PLAYWATER PLOT. Waggaman. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Waggaman. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND, THE. Spalding, S.J. 
RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bonesteel. 

RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. Bearne, S.J. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. Bearne, S.J. 
SEA-GULLS’ ROCK, THE. Sandeau. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. THE. Nixon-Roulet. 
SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. 

SHEER PLUCK. Bearne, S.J. 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK, THE. Spalding, S.J. 
ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, S.J. 

STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. Waggaman. 

SUGAR-CAMP AND AFTER, THE. Spalding, S.J. 
SUMMER AT WOODVILLE, A. Sadlier. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. Ca- 

PELLA. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. 

TAMING OF POLLY, THE. Dorsey. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. Taggart. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Mother Salome. 

TOM LOSELY: BOY. Copus, S.J. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn, S.J. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE, THE. Waggaman. 
TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUNTAIN, THE. Taggart. 
TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack. 

VIOLIN- MAKER OF MITTENWALD, THE. Schaching. 

10 


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WAYWARD WINIFRED. Sadlier. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. Taggart. 
WITCH OF RIDINGDALE, THE. Bearne, S.J. 
YOUNG COLOR GUARD, THE. Bonesteel. 


0 85 
0 85 
0 85 
0 45 


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